Echoes of the Heart: Judgment
by gab2541996
Summary: Mellowed by the life of nobility, the Hawke sisters have strove, for five years, to live out their lives in peace and repayment to the City of Chains. However, as tensions rise within the city, a forgotten evil lurking at Thedas' borders makes Clarissa and Bethany realise that their fates was never in their hands, but lay entwined with the final reckoning of the world. Major AU
1. Under the Stars

"I don't think I can take much more of this." Clarissa Hawke murmured as she closed the bedroom door behind her and leaned against the adjacent wall. The ever-persistent chill within the polished granite had a calming effect on her, as the sheen of sweat she had acquired for the last couple of hours made her feel stuffy, clammy and generally uncomfortable. Silently, she thanked the Maker she had doused herself with a touch of perfume before the occasion – the red-and-black evening gown and the corset beneath it was effectively plastered to her body, and she was sure she would have smelled something horrible had she not tried out the newly-purchased Orlesian fragrance.

She approached the full-height dressing mirror beside her wardrobe and made a small sound of dismay as she gazed at her reflection. Her auburn hair, dazzling and hypnotic in its flowing, fiery tresses, sported sporadic but eminent strands of rebellious curls, hampering her overall hairstyle;

Her violet-blue eyes, referred to by most as 'good-natured' and 'jovial' with 'enigmatic' coming up as a close third, had acquired a pitch-black oval around them as the violet mascara she had so carefully applied mingled with the highlighter lines around the eyelids;

Her smooth yet tanned skin, perceived as somewhat of a miracle by the various highborn ladies she had come to acquaint herself with, was matted with sweat, with what makeup she had applied as an afterthought becoming smears and blotches on her otherwise flawless features;

Her long, elegant neck gave way to a low-cut, finely-tailored evening gown that sported a tantalisingly low neckline and an extraordinarily narrow waist, highlighting her athletic, curvaceous figure with a deep, dark red offset by streaks of midnight black that ran diagonally across the dress, enhancing her silhouette but never taking the spotlight for itself.

_It's alright! A little touching up here and there, and I'll be back out there._

"Oh, Maker, I have to be back out there, don't I?" she sighed to no one in particular.

The bedroom door opened, and Clarissa's breath hitched and her heartbeat sped up immeasurably. No matter how many times she laid eyes upon her, she still managed to make her flustered just at the sight of her.

"They're starting to wonder where you are, Clare…" Bethany Hawke said with amusement in her voice, worry on her tone and a reassuring smile on her lips, which were painted a vivid red.

_Andraste's flaming knickers, you're such a tease. _Clarissa thought, running her eyes up and down Bethany, as if she could not get enough of her.

Unlike her, Bethany had a full, composed head of jet-black tresses that seemed to be perfectly groomed and arranged, framing her honey-brown eyes, tapered nose, round cheeks and pointed jaws in a delicate display of what would be the beauty of an angel in Clarissa's eyes. Similarly, however, Bethany chose a red-and-black evening gown as her choice of raiment for the evening, although the blackness on her dress was much more striking and prominent. The dress hugged her voluptuous body like a second skin, exaggerating all the right places and highlighting a sense of physical strength and mental hardiness that bested most of the guests they had been entertaining. To her, it didn't take as much effort as it did for Clarissa. After hours of mingling with the residents of Hightown and acquaintances of the Viscount, Bethany was still calm, composed and more beautiful than she had a right to be.

"Mother's holding down the fort down there. She won't be lasting long." Bethany said, stopping beside Clarissa as she massaged her temples.

"If I see, one more time, those prissy old women smirking and chuckling behind their fancy little gloved hands while they ask me to tell them stories about farming back home, I swear to Maker on high…" Clarissa gesticulated ecstatically, as if her erratic actions would bring about divine judgment upon the pretentious, evil noblemen and women she had invited into her estate.

"They're using that again? We've been in Hightown for, what, five years now!" Bethany grinned, running a hand down Clarissa's back to smoothen out her breathing. It worked like a charm, just as she thought.

"And the DeLauncets! Those Maker-damned tricksters actually tried to slip me something in the drink!" Clarissa practically shouted. Bethany contemplated casting a spell to contain her voice in the room.

"How'd you know?" she asked, more out of amusement than genuine concern. Clarissa could handle herself, all right. She just never was that patient.

"I cast a spell! Showed me all I needed to know." Clarissa said while she tried, with furious anger, to smoothen out the rebellious curls nestled within her hair.

"Here," Bethany took her hand and replaced it with her own, carefully and delicately placing each errant curl back where they belonged. She dabbed at her cheeks softly, spreading the congealed makeup across the entire cheek to lessen its visual impact, producing a kerchief to remove the mascara around her eyes. She saw Clarissa's eyelids flutter – she was enjoying it.

"You're getting good at that, you know." Bethany remarked, her analytical eyes running up, down and every which way, looking for flaws in her older sister's appearance. She was pleased to find none.

She was just about to retract her hands when Clarissa grabbed her by the wrist.

"Don't… don't stop…" Clarissa moaned out the words.

A mischievous glint came into Bethany's eyes, and she brushed aside Clarissa's defences and pressed her lips onto hers. She suckled on her lower lip, making her moan with delight at the delicious tension replacing the anxiety in her system. She enveloped her lips with her mouth, tickling her teeth with her tongue. She felt Clarissa's hand wrap around the back of her neck, pressing her further in. She felt the sudden heat that flared between her thighs, making them clench in need. She took a deep breath.

Then she pulled away, leaving Clarissa momentarily disoriented and disappointed.

"Wha-?" Clarissa muttered.

"Come on, big baby. We have to wrap this party up." Bethany said, finding it hard-pressed to keep herself from grinning ear to ear.

"Then what was that- you…" Clarissa stammered. She looked so adorable when she's flustered.

"Oh, you little vixen," Clarissa shot accusing daggers at her, making her die laughing, "do you even _know_ how that feels?"

"Oh, I do, Clare. I do," Bethany sidled closer, letting her breath tickle Clarissa's face, "makes you feel hot and bothered, doesn't it."

"Just what I needed, that's what." Clarissa huffed, edging away from her and straightening out the frills on her dress, trying to recover from the searing heat that had set her ablaze not moments ago.

"You do know you're going to get what's coming for you after we're done with this fiasco, " Clarissa whispered throatily, winking at her, "don't you?"

"Is that a challenge I hear in your voice, Clarissa Hawke?" Bethany raised an eyebrow at her, biting her lower lip in anticipation, "we'll see who gets who first."

"We most certainly will, Bethany Hawke." Clarissa affirmed. They slipped out of the bedroom, Clarissa leading the way with her hand in Bethany's. The ball was still in full blast. Orlesian minstrels played, with lutes and lyres, lively and flowing melodies that brought a few couples swaying and stepping to the tune. The smell of mellow champagne and wine filled the air, enhanced by no less than a dozen faces flushed cherry-red with alcohol. The sisters split up, busying themselves with making small talk with the nobles, some of which had wondered at their whereabouts. Out of the corner of her eye, Clarissa spied Bethany being surrounded by a group of noblemen and women, assaulting her with endless questions. Any lesser woman, such as herself, would have folded under the immense pressure. She saw, however, that her sister was utterly at ease, darting from question to question and smiling courteously when they complimented her appearance.

"She's beautiful, your sister." Clarissa heard a female voice, richly and elegantly accented, pipe up at her side. She turned round to find a young noblewoman attired in a Orlesian silk dress of midnight black, her alabaster skin, high cheekbones and pursed lips offset by her cobalt eyes which was utterly fixated on her, "you're a very lucky woman."

"Lady DeLauncet, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you were still outside with your husband. I do hope he's feeling better," Clarissa said, forcing joviality into her voice. Marion Delauncet was the sort of person she hated the most: Resourceful, manipulative and cunning, all wrapped in a figurine of stately elegance. Her heart leapt in triumph as Marion's eyes darkened. That stuff in the drink packed a punch.

"He's just had too much, to be sure. He always was a poor judge of his own caliber, especially his own capabilities at drink."

"Well, I guess it's safe to say he's lucky, as well, that he has you," Clarissa said, smiling.

"You're too kind, Lady Hawke. I'm just a common woman."

Coming from a noblewoman whose family had connections with every individual of influence in Kirkwall, her words couldn't have sounded hollower to Clarissa. With the viscount's daughter being a close friend of hers, her own son a lieutenant in the City Guard and whispered acquaintances with the Carta and half a dozen small-time cartels dwelling in Darktown, Marion Delauncet was a wealthy, well-connected and powerful woman in Kirkwall. As a result, the rapid rise of the Hawke name among the social elite of the city has caught no small amount of her attentions, and she has since made herself a silent rival of Clarissa. They were polar opposites: Farm girl against highborn lady; Warrior against diplomat; One had brought about the rise of her nobility by championing the poor and helping the powerless in the lower, more down-and-out reaches of the city, while the other conspired with the ruthless and the power-hungry to further her own standing. It was as if they were doomed to be mortal enemies.

It was that, and the devious woman and her uncovering of Bethany's identity as an apostate mage.

She had exploited the information without remorse or regret, bringing the Templars upon them when they least expected it. It was only the revelation of Bethany's identity as the de-facto Warden-Commander of the Grey Wardens in the Free Marches, coupled with the considerable amount of goodwill they had garnered over the past year that Bethany was saved from a hauling off to the Gallows.

She sensed it now, the murderous fury that had built up with the passing of each second with Marion Delauncet at her side, seemingly taking pleasure in seeing Clarissa feigning joviality. They both saw through it, of course. Both violet-blue and dark cobalt saw through the meaningless facades of appearances and beheld the disdain and hatred beneath.

The delightful, fleeting tune came to a full stop as some of the minstrels swapped up on their instruments, opting for Orlesian violons and their larger cousins, the Violocelles. As the first of the slow, haunting yet indescribably beautiful melody filled the air, Clarissa spotted Bethany walking towards her, an air of regality that only served to perpetuate her unearthly beauty.

"Lady Delauncet." Bethany said.

"Lady Hawke." Marion inclined her head in return.

Turning towards Clarissa, Bethany smiled. It was a pure smile, untouched by their earlier decadence and untainted by the pretention that seemed to pervade the ballroom.

"May I?" Bethany asked, raising a hand in courtly askance. Clarissa's heart bounced around in her chest. She took her hand.

She led her to the center of the floor then, their hands clasped, fingers entwined, steps in perfect harmony, eyes locked with one another. The surrounding couples stopped in their movements and watched them glide across the floor with apparent ease, but Clarissa and Bethany paid them no heed.

They were in the fields with wind in their hair, swaying shadows of leaves on their bodies and moonlight awash on their closed eyes, dancing under the stars.

/I couldn't resist.

This scene, and the story in general, takes place five years after Clarissa and Bethany have reclaimed the estate and each other and, although the Qunari is still a threat, the AU-ness from so long ago will be present. And this time it will be wilder than ever.

If you haven't read the prequel, Echoes of the Heart, I strongly urge you to do so. I wouldn't be able to make sense of this either if I haven't read the whole thing over once. Then again, it's your call, as it always has been.

Dareth Shiral./


	2. Dark of Night

"I appreciate you being here, Hawke," Aveline Vallen, captain of the Kirkwall City Guard, clapped her punctual friend on the shoulder. "Most of the guardsmen are still wounded from that raid last week. They had insisted, but I'm not taking any chances."

"Let's just call it practice." Clarissa replied, utterly at ease in spite of the tall, foreboding buildings that loomed before her, partially concealing the maze of winding alleyways and dark passages that constituted the Lowtown Foundry district. Dark plumes of smoke billowed from chimneys atop the numerous factory buildings choosing to leave their furnaces smouldering overnight, bathing the area in a muddy haze that obscured vision and clogged up breathing.

Clarissa briefly closed her eyes, murmuring inaudible words under her breath before a soft wash of green light coalesced in front of Aveline's face, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Although she tried to hide it, Clarissa saw twinges of unease cloud her friend's eyes at her use of magic.

Ever since her ascent to the Kirkwall elite, Clarissa has insinuated herself into the inner workings and liaisons between the Viscount's office and the City Guard. She had cut through immeasurable lengths of red tape by frequently infuriating the Seneschal with her "meddling" in his affairs, raised funds for the Guard by hosting fundraisers that, with her rising fame, filled their coffers with more gold than they could ever spend, and even spending a sizable amount of gold drawn from her own fortune to purchase and maintain the Guard's equipment, from the sword and shield of the captain herself down to the boot laces of the newest recruit. With her support, the Kirkwall City Guard had grown exponentially in strength, with able-bodied men and women flocking to take up the crest by the dozens.

_"You're no child, but I take care of my friends."_

_And still, it's not enough. _Clarissa thought bitterly.

Despite the overwhelming support she had shown Aveline and the men and women under her command, she found that Aveline herself was becoming more and more hands-on with the Guard's day-to-day functions. Her suspicions were confirmed by several of the guardsmen, but she had seen more than enough of Aveline to make that judgment.

At the moment, the guard captain was sweating heavily, perspiration rolling like rivers down her cheeks, plastering her vermilion hair in matted patches and errant strands over her forehead. Her emerald eyes, usually alight with a fire that belonged to the front of a charge, were dim and unfocused. Even a blind man would have sensed her exhaustion, for her breathing was laboured and heavy. Her grey steel armour, flanged with orange highlights that showed her status as captain, weighed on her rather than moving with her, which was something Clarissa noted with disturbance. Aveline was a ruthless, tireless warrior; dedicated to the people she was fighting to protect and devoted to the ideal she stood for, but even a woman-shaped battering ram had her limits and Clarissa was concerned she might just have reached that limit.

"You know, Bethany and I can handle this…" Clarissa ventured, knowing full well the answer she would get.

"No."

"Aveline…"

"I said, no." Aveline insisted, looking Clarissa in the eye. "We're breaking more than a dozen rules by letting you join in. I won't have those bastards in the Viscount's office start claiming we're letting vigilantes do our job for us."

"Whatever happened to the deputy stunt you pulled all those years ago that landed Jeven a nice apartment in the dungeon?" Clarissa chided, referring to the ex-guard captain, Victor Jeven, and his collaboration with a thieves' guild back when Clarissa was a refugee fresh off the boat.

"Nothing. It's just that I have to be here overseeing your efforts," Aveline said, "you won't be able to convince me so easily, Hawke. You know me better than that."

"Hey, who said I was trying?" Clarissa rolled her eyes, and the two women shared a fleeting moment of mirth.

They heard footsteps behind them. Aveline's hand flew to her pommel, but Clarissa remained passive.

"You're late, Bethy!" She called.

Bethany Hawke rounded the bend and shrugged as she walked briskly towards the duo.

"Anders needed some help with a patient," she said nonchalantly, inadvertently making Clarissa's pulse race as she pecked her lightly on the lips. Even when fully clothed in her Grey Warden regalia, Bethany was still a stunning sight.

"He didn't enlist your help?" Clarissa asked.

"And ask me to miss out on the latest safari? Not in a million years." Bethany grinned heartily, her staff hand subconsciously reaching for her staff and freeing it from the clasp on her belt. Bathed in the light of the full moon, the golden statuette of Andraste gleamed with golden brilliance, lending light down the length of the staff, which was also covered in pure gold up to the middle.

_Intimidating would be a gigantic understatement,_ Clarissa thought.

"You broke out Father's staff?" Clarissa raised her eyebrows incredulously.

"A little stress test, _Clare Bear_, nothing to worry about." Bethany winked, chuckling when she saw Clarissa's face go red at the usage of her nickname.

"Ahem." Aveline cleared her throat a tad louder than was necessary.

"Might I suggest we get underway before the gangs cart off all the cargo we're supposed to keep our eyes on?" She asked.

"Aye, aye captain." Clarissa answered.

_Merry band of misfits, indeed._

Her golden sword drawn, she stepped across the unseen boundary and into the Foundry district. She gripped it tightly, relishing in the feel of the worn hilt in her grasp, the offhand gleam constant distracting her eyes and the light, almost flippant sense of ease with which the oversized longsword handled itself. Borne of her experience with it and its apparent affinity with its current wielder, the golden blade was as light as a reed and as swift as a touch of wind, except that that miniscule movement of air would take an armoured helm clean off its perch with its wearer still inside.

"Go left at the next cross," Aveline instructed, relying on her memory of the district map to lead them to the warehouse in question. "If my source is telling the truth, the Carta will be making a play for a batch of crates recently salvaged from the Qunari shipwreck."

"A bit late to still be recovering salvage from there, isn't it?" Bethany inquired, the magical light in her upraised palm illuminating the otherwise pitch-black alleyway they were in.

"With the years going by, the local people have grown bolder in the Qunari's shadow, what with them having their own problems with the Tal-Vashoth as well. Salvage parties and looters will only get more common." Clarissa remarked, keeping her mind alert and her grip on her sword steady. It would not surprise her to find gangs and guilds loitering around in this part of town, where even a thorough, nightly patrol of the City Guard couldn't put a damper on the dozens of murders reported over the last few months. She wondered, at the back of her mind, how many more have occurred without ever being seen or heard of.

"It doesn't matter who we're up against. If they come away with cargo that belongs to the Qunari, it would only escalate the already tense situation between the city and its unwanted inhabitants." Aveline said.

"They've been here for seven years already. You would've thought that ship of theirs could have arrived long ago to cart them off back home." Clarissa said, turning left at a sign that had the crudely-formed word _warhouse _etched on it.

"We can't have them figured, that's for sure," Aveline said, a tinge of irritation in her voice. "Of all the reports and complaints I have to put up with on a daily basis, about half of them are almost always pertaining to the Qunari, one way or another."

"Someone has a low job satisfaction." Clarissa snickered.

"One of the downsides to this job, but like I said, I wouldn't have it any other way." Aveline retorted, lightly smiling at her friend's jibe.

"There, that sign over the door," Bethany gestured with her light-bearing hand, conjuring another werelight standing obediently over the door in question, "is that it?"

Aveline's eyes lit up as she beheld the seal of the Kirkwall Port Authority on the dangling sign, scorched and dirtied by the ill-flavoured wind that pervaded the Foundry district.

"That's it," she affirmed.

"And not a moment too soon," muttered Clarissa as she held up a bronze padlock, cut cleanly on one end.

"We have company."

She gently pushed the door inwards, the rotten slab of wood creaking on its rusted hinges. It occurred to her that the place had been deserted for some time.

"You sure this is a city-owned warehouse?" She queried, finding it odd that no abundance of cargo stored in this particular warehouse.

Aveline nodded. "The warehouse out at the docks is the one used by most dockworkers when they find misplaced or unregistered cargo. This one takes quite the long haul to get to, and the workers tend to overlook it even if the other one's full up. Besides, the Port Authority impounds and confiscates most goods after three days of no one claiming them, so it's rarely full."

"Just three days?" Bethany asked.

"That's leaving out the port officials who cart off lost cargo to their own premises for 'safekeeping'." Aveline replied.

"Oh."

"Well, either way, this is one big empty warehouse." Clarissa said loudly, hearing her voice reverberate across the surprisingly spacious building. She saw that the building sported a second floor and that a single door led out into the district from another side.

"Maybe it's in one of the back rooms." Bethany offered, extinguishing her light in favour of the torch sconces mounted on the walls. Clarissa nodded in agreement, and Aveline gestured for them to move forward.

They were squarely at the center the warehouse when they appeared.

One by one, they dropped from the ceiling beams of the warehouse. Archers landed atop the second floor, claiming the high ground while stout, hardy dwarves formed a circle around them, brandishing hamaxes and warhammers with both hands. Clarissa did a rough head count. It was three to over twenty.

The door at the far end of the warehouse creaked as a pair of elves closed the door behind them and stared down at them derisively. One was male, carrying a twisted, gnarled birchwood staff on his back. The other was a woman with a greatsword swinging leisurely at her side, exuding an air of authority despite her diminutive stature.

"They aren't the Qunari." The male elf asked, surprised.

"Even better," the female elf sneered, glaring at the trapped trio with a malevolent gleam in her eyes.

"They're human."

Her free hand slashed the air vertically.

In unison, the ring of archers above let fly with their coarsely-fletched arrows, a strangling circlet of streamlined, blurred shapes tightening around the entrapped humans.

Aveline raised her shield, the muscles on her arm flexing as she prepared herself for the arrows meeting her head-on.

_Bethany… _Clarissa muttered with her thoughts, envisioning a gauntlet of mana enveloping her bracer and forming a makeshift buckler. She hoped it would give her more surface area with which she could block the imminent barrage. She shouldn't be worried. They have no knowledge of her use of magic; She had surprise on her side.

But then again, this _was _a surround.

The spectacle of Aveline, Bethany and her being turned into living quivers suddenly seemed extraordinarily vivid in her mind.

_Why the long face?_

The voice was soft, cultured, tinged with a Fereldan accent that gave a humourous edge to the calming effect it had on Clarissa. It was as smooth as freshly-spun silk, running like cool water over her senses, restoring clarity to her jumbled thoughts and jumpstarting her fighting instinct. It failed, however, to deter the arrows that were, at that moment, still enclosing them.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bethany resting a single finger upon her temple, brow furrowed as if deep in thought. Then a string of words, lyrical and powerful, ran across the link in their mind as Bethany let loose a surge of mana.

_And the wings of the butterfly shall let loose a hurricane… _Bethany thought, the mental image of the spell's intended effect burned into her mind as if by fire.

_The Maker Himself cannot stop._

An ominous _thud _shook the entire warehouse as a blast of pure physical force exploded outwards from Bethany upraised hand, striking the walls and the ceiling and tearing off bits and pieces of aged wooden planks. The arrows in mid-flight were simply thrown backwards as the very air that not a moment ago had been propelling them forward was suddenly turned against them. Lost among the conflicting currents of air, they drifted aimlessly for a time before falling harmlessly to the ground. The archers, for their part, were shoved against the walls at their backs, their bowstrings snapping with distinct reports as the brute force behind Bethany's spell carried behind it a delicate razor-like motion that, while not powerful enough to lop the heads off of the unprotected bowmen, was able to sever the delicate strands that operated their longbows.

She gave the dwarves credit, though. They dug their heels in and not one of them had lost their footing. If anything, her display of raw magical might only served to fuel their bloodlust, as a few of them growled in anger and flourished their oversized weapons as if itching for a fight.

Her gaze then snapped onto the elven woman above her as she snarled in fury, pushing her companion forward.

"Kill them all!"

The archers leapt from their elevated positions, replacing their broken bows with daggers and swords hidden underneath their clothing;

The dwarves raised their weapons over their heads and closed the distance between them and the encircled group. From a bird's-eye view, the scene was akin to a pack of wolves, closing in on trapped prey.

But the Hawke sisters and their Guard captain were not ordinary prey.

Clarissa sidestepped the head-to-toe swing from the first dwarf she encountered, separating herself from Bethany and Aveline to draw a portion of her assailants' attention to her. She parried once, twice, then three times, augmenting her strength with magic and weathering even the strongest of blows while five men, three of them humans, took turns jabbing and slashing at her. Their broad, wide-angled axes and hammers worked to her advantage – they could not pounce on her all at once, for fear that the others' cleaving swings and arcing strikes would hit them instead of the dexterous woman weaving about their attacks. It also helped that she was incredibly accurate in her defense, feeling and disregarding the weight of her sword as its handling was all too familiar to her.

An errant swordsman caught her blade with an exceedingly heavy diagonal swing, forcing her to resist with both hands or risk being cut open from left shoulder to right hip. Clarissa gritted her teeth as the man pressed his oppressive weight into the lock, looking to occupy her long enough for his comrades to stab her in the back.

Then she smiled, and let the man's sword slide down her own as if she was unable to best his strength. The leading edge o the blade pressed down on Clarissa's shoulder, making her pivot left at the hip to prevent it from sinking into her flesh.

He never saw the curved end of her bracer knocking him hard on the side of his face, wiping the decidedly smug sneer off of it. His swing went wild, his eyes lost their focus and he gave Clarissa ample time to drive her sword through his gut. Then he fell to the floor, lifeless, as Clarissa unsheathed her now-sanguine blade from his body. The dancing blade threw off lances of blood-red light.

Bethany took on her own foes in a very different fashion.

When the first of them came for her with swords held high and their steps wide, she knew for certain that she would not be able to take them head-on, as Aveline or Clarissa did. Instead, she swept her staff in a semi-circle before her, its tip barely making contact with the ground. She summoned forth her memories of the Vimmark Mountain pass: Cold, unforgiving and lacerated with needle-sharp spines that protruded from the earth as if to impale those who treaded on its thin ice. Holding the mental image in place, she channeled a sizable portion of her mana into it, willing it into reality.

The men and dwarves charging towards Bethany scattered in shock as a crescent of pure white spikes, each jagged in contour and varied in size, sprouted from the ground beneath their feet. The leading Carta warrior was unfortunate enough to have overextended himself, placing his body on the exact location where Bethany had drawn her line in the sand. As a gruesome result, three of the diagonal stalagmites went through him instantly, skewering him under his chin, his left breastplate and square in his stomach and piercing his banded iron armour as if it were canvas. The stifling atmosphere of the Foundry district made short work of the ice formations, but the remaining men were too preoccupied with the sight of their comrade's visceral death to respond to the agile, lithe female mage wading into their midst, golden staff in one hand, a searing ball of orange flame in the other. By the time they were even partially recovered from their horror, Bethany had already clocked one man on the head and set another dwarf on fire, dancing away and avoiding their counterattacks.

Aveline was equally adept at dispatching miscreants and gang members. Her pointed, reinforced kite shield being her specialty, she utilized it to its full potential.

Offensively, it was a hard-hitting bludgeon, unable to be parried or blocked by swords and axes. Striking from the side, Aveline bashed aside sword arms and axe shafts as exercises in futility, leaving them wide open for a thrust from her sword or a cuff from the kite's blunt but painfully heavy rim.

Defensively, it might as well have been a brick wall set between Aveline and her foes, her vigilant practice with it allowing her to intercept attacks, block crushing blows or simply backpedal from situations that would expose her flanks. She took her enemies on one by one, analyzing his or her style, identifying its strengths and weaknesses, then capitalize on it with a single, calculated and precise attack. Unlike Clarissa, she had all the time in the world.

Bethany felt a lance of pain shoot up her arm as one of the rogues' blind slashes drew a long line on her exposed skin, her arm unable to move out of harm's way as it was locked in place with a warhammer bearing down her staff, the horizontal block being all that stood between the steel head and her skull. The burning wound dislodged her focus, and she landed a glancing blow with her staff before dancing away again. As she backpedalled, however, she sensed something was amiss.

That was just before the heel of her boot hit solid wall.

And there she was, on her own, holding off at least four men with her staff. She could not risk using magic in such proximity – it would injure her as much as her attackers. Instead, she flourished her staff and used the narrow angle of the corner she was in to limit the corridors from which they could attack her. _Form and finesse._ That was it. She just needed to hold out until Aveline or Clarissa came to her aid.

_Clarissa!_

But help would not come.

Indeed, she felt her strength waning with each passing second, her arms and wrists going sore from the innumerable blows raining down upon her. Her defenses slackened, opening up avenues of attack that earned her scores of fresh wounds along her arms, including a particularly heavy blow to her gut from an axe that drew blood through the chainmail underneath and knocked the wind out of her. Other than that, the central mass of her body was left untouched. It was, however, getting difficult for her to maintain that status.

From a gap amidst the men attacking her, she saw a feminine figure garbed in gleaming silver bashing her way through throngs of men, the golden, bloodied sword in her right hand pushing man and dwarf alike aside with mighty swings. The light reflected from her armour hurt her eyes. She closed them out of instinct, just as she felt her staff being hooked aside, as the two men directly in front of her were flung aside by an unstoppable force.

She felt the axe coming before she saw it, arcing down towards her exposed chest from a reckless swing by the dwarf on her right.

She heard a grotesque _snick _as the blade of the axe caught itself in flesh.

But there was no pain. Indeed, she felt nothing at all.

A gasp of pain reached her ears, reminiscent of a voice she was all too familiar with.

_Clarissa._

Clarissa gasped as the agony, scalding hot and freezing cold all at once, spread from the axe buried to the bone just above her right collarbone to every inch of her body, plunging her senses into disarray. She was partly thankful for the heavy silverite armour she wore, for without its cushioning, the blow would have sliced her in half.

But Maker, did it _hurt_.

She balled a fist with her bracer hand, the joints grinding against the steel embedded within them in an intense explosion of obliterating agony as she swung hard, catching the dwarf that had maimed her under his chin and sending him flying. Her vision flared red and white and dangerously black as blood began to flow from the wound, but she held on. She swung her sword with one hand, her recklessness and perseverance catching the last man standing off guard, cutting him wide at the hip. As he fell dead, Clarissa felt Bethany's scrambling hands on her shoulder, hearing her cry out as she saw the blood oozing from the fearsome wound.

But the fight was far from over.

A jagged lance of lightning struck Clarissa in the chest, knocking her backwards and into the wall. The enchantments she had placed over her armour flared as it counteracted the spell. Bethany saw the protective sigil dissipate, then swung her eyes round for the origin of the spell.

She spotted him at the base of the stairs, his staff discarded in favour of manipulating energy with the palms of his hands. Twin globes of crackling, sizzling energy coalesced obediently in his grasp, making the reddish tint in his eyes all the more apparent. She saw his gaze latch onto Clarissa and in a flash she saw how similar Clarissa's blood was with his eyes in colour.

She barely had time to think of counterspell before Clarissa writhed in pain, her back arching as the very blood in her veins turned against her, burning her and racking her with uncontrollable spasms, seeking to tear her apart from the inside. Bethany wrenched the sword from her hands and held her down as she mouthed a spell of warding, cursing when the elven mage's blood magic circumvented her hasty defense. She saw Aveline trying desperately to close the meager distance between her and the blood mage, but she also saw her being forced backwards as he showered her with crackling tendrils of primal lightning. Like Clarissa's silverite chestplate, Aveline's shield was enchanted against magical attacks, but the sigil wouldn't last long against the blood mage's relentlessly powerful assault.

A thought suddenly occurred to her.

She closed her eyes and felt, with her attuned mind, the dweomer rune inscribed onto Aveline's kite shield with lyrium. Latching onto the sigil, she funnelled the last of her strength into the counterspell it was working, sustaining it for as long as she could.

"Aveline, go!" Bethany shouted.

"Kill him!"

Aveline Vallen felt the pressure against her shield weaken as an expanse of turgid black radiated from the dweomer rune on her shield, protecting her from the raw lightning the blood mage directed at her. She regained her footing, tightened her grip on her shield, and took one step forward.

Then another.

Then another, until the mage furiously backpedalled to create as much distance between them as he could, but the woman-shaped battering ram he had antagonized could not be denied.

Both Clarissa's soundless screams and the mage's magical discharges came to a sudden halt as Aveline bashed him with the side of her kite shield, punching him square on his left cheek with plate metal. The shield came back, landing another hard blow on his right cheek and knocking him backwards.

Then she unceremoniously hilted her ordinary, unassuming sword into his chest, punching clean through his body and impaling him against the wall. He was only allowed to slide down the blood-slick wall when she pulled her sword free, leaving him without so much as a backward glance.

Aveline dropped her sword and shield and examined Clarissa's wound with a practiced eye. The bleeding had already stopped. Bethany would have torn her hair out at her momentary silence, but she was too tired to do so.

"You'll live," Aveline said, patting Clarissa's cheek with a gauntleted hand. Then she stood up, turning her gaze to Bethany.

"Watch over her. I need to make sure the crates are still there," she said. Bethany nodded silently, then turned her attentions back to the frail woman beneath her.

"You foolhardy bitch, what in Andraste's name was that?" Bethany hissed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she wrapped a section of cloth around Clarissa wound. It was a sizable section of cloth.

"Besides saving your life? Me being… smart." Clarissa shot back, smiling feebly and coughing as Bethany kissed her, warmth blossoming in her chest.

"Give me a heads-up next time _before_ you get your arms chopped off for me. Okay?" Bethany said.

"That's just it, Bethany," Clarissa said.

"It's all for you."

Bethany's heart softened and her cheeks warmed.

"Flatterer." She whispered.

"Ungrateful." She whispered back.

Bethany gave her a peck on the lips.

"There, am I grateful?" She asked coyly. She watched the comical expression on Clarissa's face with adoration.

"Wait, can you do that again? I didn't get a good feel for it the first time." Clarissa said, a salacious gleam in her eyes and a husky tone in her voice. Her violet-blue eyes sparked with satisfaction as Bethany leaned in, her full lips not an inch away from her own.

"Thank you." She teased her with the soft tickles of her breath, before pressing down entirely and-

"Ahem." Aveline cleared her throat. Again.

Bethany dislodged herself from Clarissa, blinking her eyes and cursing under her breath as Clarissa visibly grumbled.

"You two should see this."

They shuffled up the stairs, Bethany's arm wound tight under Clarissa's arms. They were exhausted, injured and broken, but they did not really care. They still had each other largely in one piece, and that was what really mattered.

They made their way through the door the female elf had disappeared through moments after the fighting had started. It led to a narrow, rectangular room that ended at a door leading back into the warehouse district. The door was flung wide open, and the ghost of a large, square crate had left its imprint on the floor. The crate itself, however, was nowhere to be found.

"We were too late." Bethany muttered.

"The Qunari are not going to be happy about this." Aveline said, her eyes already swimming in the endless piles of paperwork and the daunting task of explaining to the already-agitated Arishok why his crate was stolen from right under the City Guard's nose.

Bethany shifted slightly. Clarissa winced.

"Look, I'm sure the consequences are of apocalyptic proportions, but can we get me out of here first?" She said.

They left without another word, leaving the mangled bodies of their unnamed attackers for a carrion's feast.

/Hi again! With exams on the verge and gaming being outlawed, I am finding it quite hard to balance revision with writing. I'll give it a 1:2.

Spike: Yes. It's that fast. I'm on a roll, I think.

Fayneir: Welcome back! Haven't seen you around for a while. Thoughts?

I've been seeing a lot of old faces since beginning this new story that's not exactly a new story. Please, come on by! I really appreciate reviews more than anything! And yes, I remember each and every one of you!

Dareth Shiral!/


	3. Trials of the Mind

She caught her in her writing chair, propped directly in front of the fireplace and staring into it as she descended the stairs, peering into the hypnotic flames as if they contained all the secrets in the world. She called out her name softly, watching her turn her gaze from her inspection of the fire and onto her, the traces of deep thought still vivid in her violet-blue depths. It gave her an enigmatic quality, perhaps even a severe one; it only made her all the more beautiful in her eyes.

"Up so early?" Bethany asked, lingering by the base of the stairs, one hand on the sculpted stone rail. Already, she felt the warmth of the fireplace on her skin and seeping through her thin silk gown, still burning strong and bright throughout the night.

"Early? It's past noon already." Clarissa replied, an outstretched hand beckoning to her. Unwittingly, she felt herself being tugged to her, like a ship being brought to shore, back home.

"How's the arm?"

She watched her cartwheel her right shoulder, where she had, not a day ago, taken an axe that would have killed her. The loose, hand-woven tunic she had on was short-sleeved, and Bethany noticed the taut, muscled skin along Clarissa's arms flexing and moving, completely under her control as she spun her arm full-circle without so much as a grimace.

"Never better. You did a fine job fixing me up." Clarissa said with good cheer in her voice and a twinkle in her eye.

"What can I say," Bethany cooed, wrapping her arms around her and burying her nose in the nape of her neck. "I have skilled hands."

She felt her angle her head so her own was pressed between her left cheek and the smooth skin on her neck, nuzzling her. She sighed in contentment, bathing in the warmth from Clarissa's body and the warmth of the fireplace nearby. It wasn't every day that they had the luxury of relaxation, for the life of nobility they chose had responsibilities of its own.

"Bethy, can I ask you something?" Clarissa broke the contact between them and stood, her face an aspect of deep thoughtfulness once again.

"Of course."

"When that mage cast his spell on me," Clarissa said, suppressing a shudder when the pain she had endured as her very blood turned against her vexed her anew, "was there any way to break his hold?"

Bethany was silent for a brief moment.

"You do know that he was using blood magic, don't you?" She said.

"I've been through too much pain from that to not notice it."

"Blood magic is one of the most dangerous, and one of the most feared, form of magic that exists. Its strength lies in the total control of its victims it grants to the user through its influence of the mind and, of course, the unbearable pain it causes, if you're even into that sort of thing. It is unpredictable, uncontrollable, everything a mage should fear and distance himself from, as its usage usually involves demons."

"Then why wasn't I trying to stab you the second his spell was on me?" Clarissa asked.

"I'm… not sure. Father never dwelled on the topic, but I would suspect that mages are more resilient against the influence of blood magic, for they have to have stronger minds than most to control magic." Bethany said, somewhat unsure of herself. Why was she, all of a sudden, so interested in this?

"But he still got through." Clarissa stated with a hint of disappointment. Bethany's heart softened.

"No one could have resisted blood magic. Plus, you were wounded when he picked you as his target. I'm not sure if I would've been able to resist." Bethany said, pressing a kiss on Clarissa's cheek.

"I'm still not up to speed on this magic thing, even after five years with a good teacher by my side." Clarissa sighed.

"You were about twenty years late to start with, Clare. As my only student, I am very proud of you." Bethany teased, tapping Clarissa on the nose as if rewarding an obedient child. She knew her teasing more or less had an effect on Clarissa, but Maker be damned if she was being extra obstinate this morning.

"No, no… It's not enough. One of these days, the runes I put on me wouldn't be enough to save me, and I don't want you to be the only one facing off against mages while I dice up lackeys and highwaymen," Clarissa said, a shade of determination clouding her eyes. Bethany inwardly pouted. Now, she's just being frustrating.

"Alright, Clare. Since you're so hellbent on improving your 'magic thing', I'll give you a test." Bethany offered, a spark of an idea in her mind. She was going to love this.

"And what do I get when I pass your test?" Clarissa grinned, taking up the challenge as she always did.

"You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?"

"What do I have to do?"

She sat her into her writing chair with her back facing the desk.

"You sit here, do nothing, and defend yourself while I try to break into your mind, with methods both mental," she let her voice drop slightly, belying a sultriness she hoped Clarissa did not pick up on, "and physical."

"Sounds easy enough." Clarissa said, fidgeting and squirming in her seat like a giddy schoolgirl while Bethany ran upstairs and retrieved a blindfold.

"This is to help you concentrate." She said when she returned, tying the dark strip of cloth around Clarissa's eyes as she closed them. For all intents and purposes, she was now blind.

_Perfect._

"Now, clear your thoughts…"

Clarissa took a deep breath and bid her almost-incoherent thoughts cease, as if calming a sea racked by a terrible storm.

"Empty your mind…"

She envisioned her mind as an expanse of blank canvas, washed clean of ink, dye and memories of crimson blood, smooth and white as snow.

"And hold your ground."

Stout, unbreakable walls of stone slammed down around her consciousness as she readied her defense, preparing to keep whatever Bethany had planned for her out.

For a long, drawn-out moment, she saw nothing, heard nothing and felt nothing.

Then she felt it.

The soft, tingling tickle of warm breath on her skin, running down her neck teasingly. She fought to keep herself from edging away. A knot formed in her stomach.

She heard it, too.

The sultry, seductive giggle she always gave when she kissed her, or when she teased her with a graze of her lips, driving her wild, mad with lust.

"Bethany, wha-?" She started, then abruptly stopped herself when slippery tendrils from Bethany's encroaching consciousness crept through a crack in her defense. The walls slammed down again, and she felt her sister let out a dark chuckle in the confines of her mind before slithering away.

Bethany's heart leapt as she took in every inch of the now immobile Clarissa before her. Clarissa was not as well-trained as she was in dividing her thoughts, and as such she could not maintain control over her physical faculties while her mind busied itself with self-defense.

Unlike her.

She leaned in, noting with amusement how Clarissa squeezed her eyes shut with excessive force, and enveloped Clarissa's lower lip in her mouth, moaning devilishly as she felt Clarissa's walls crumble and shake at her ministrations. She had thought she would have lasted longer, but what she thought mattered little. What she _wanted _took precedence.

She attacked her again, this time trailing kisses down the crook of her neck and onto her collarbone, her tongue flicking across the faded scar where the axe had nearly maimed her, where, at the moment, she knew it to be incredibly sensitive for Clarissa.

Clarissa hissed, trying desperately to cling onto what sanity she had left to resist. She felt her presence looming, her touch beckoning, disarming, waiting for her to surrender to her, to crumble before her touch, to give herself to her, as she had done so for so many times already.

Surely one more time wouldn't hurt.

Bethany smiled when she felt the barricades around Clarissa's mind crumble completely, when she heard her whisper to her, voice hoarse and strangled with desire.

"Don't stop."

She tore herself away from her flawless skin, looking a pair of violet-black eyes in the eye, finding them glazed with lust and heightened by an insatiable hunger only her lips, her body, could slake.

She tackled her, pressing hungry lips against her own, pinning her rambunctious tongue down with a powerful thrust, moaning breathlessly without breaking the deadlock they found themselves in, where one and the other were not so different and two became one.

She slithered her thoughts into her wide-open mind, feeling the delightful sensation of dominance while sharing the sheer pleasure of submission as their lips melded seamlessly, their tongues wrestled vigourously, and their hands clutched at the back of their heads, running their fingers through the wavy locks of hair they shared, breaking apart only to gasp for breath.

"Cheater." She whispered, melting her with her gaze.

"Loser." She smiled, biting her lower lip and batting her eyes, daring her to take her again.

So she did.

She rose from her seat, turning away from the fireplace and pushing, driving her back until her back hit the wall by the staircase. She felt her gasp and she moved in, trapping her between burning, shifting heat and cold, hard stone. Their eyes locked, and her hammering heart leapt when she saw the look of breathless pleasure in her eyes. She gave her no chance to recover, engulfing her in yet another passionate embrace that had her bucking against her, her soft silk gown tickling her skin.

She disengaged, touching her lightly on the lips, then on her cheek, down her jaw, sauntering towards that part of her body she knew to be pleasurable for her. She tickled her way under her jaw, smiling between her kisses as her moans, satisfied yet greedy, forced her downwards, where the alabaster, silken texture of her neck distracted her from what she was doing with her hands.

"Yes…" she moaned, feeling her moist, tender lips lavishing their attentions on her neck, making the nerve endings under her skin tingle and go wild, making her purr with pleasure and crave for more. She noticed deft fingers hiking the paper-thin fabric of her gown up and felt her hand slide along her thighs. She heard her chuckle approvingly when she found that she wore nothing underneath, save for a hot wetness that pooled between her legs. She bucked, pressing herself taut against her body, feeling the telltale touch of her finger lingering, teasing, inducing madness.

"Yes… please…" She murmured breathily.

She was not one to refuse.

Her mind wandered for the briefest of moments as she felt her finger slip into her depths, pushing past the delicate lips and into her body in a tense, reverent silence. She felt her mouth fall agape as a host of sensations coursed through her at the feel of a single digit working wonders with her insides, turning her inside out and replacing everything she saw, smelled, heard or felt with pure, hot ecstasy. Perhaps it's the exquisite feeling of having another one's body, no matter how fractional, inside her own; perhaps it's the intimate familiarity with which she did it, probing and sparking all the right spots that had been revealed to her over the past five years; or perhaps it's the simple, unadulterated pleasure of being touched, stretched and filled by someone she loved and allowed to manipulate her body, her senses, so completely.

Whatever it may be, she loved it.

"This is what you've been ogling for all morning, isn't it?" Clarissa whispered in her ear, wriggling her digit inside her molten, silken vice. She was gentle about it, as she always had been. It was one of the things that kept her so deliciously, exquisitely tight.

"Yes." She answered breathlessly, each miniscule movement of her index finger, buried to the knuckle, igniting blossoms of fiery euphoria in her that spread like wildfire, until her entire body was alight and her mind was empty save for one word, one desire.

_More._

The singular thought was so strong, so intense, it reached across their mental link without her ever intending it. It should not have come as a surprise with her mind hopelessly entangled with hers, every thought was unwittingly shared, and every emotion, every sensation was heartfelt for both of them.

She revelled in how greedy she was, bucking her deliciously curved hips against her, rubbing the inside of her thigh up and down her legs and shamelessly mewling and panting as she yearned and keened, beseeching more and more. She was so slick, so warm and wet, the blood rushing to Bethany's nether regions only serving to engulf yet another inch of her digit, pulsing against the nimble, slim finger with every beat of her heart.

She extracted her finger from her, earning her a disappointed mewl as her swollen entrance, already dripping with arousal, tugged at her, unconsciously begging her to return, to fill her and sate her once more.

"Now, now," Clarissa cooed, leaning in close so her tongue could tickle her along the rim of her ear as she whispered the words, "let me take you to bed, then I'll ravage you however and _wherever _you want."

Bethany gave a mischievous grin then squeaked as Clarissa kicked out with her leg, sweeping her off her feet. The fleeting moment of weightlessness was carried away as her arms, strong and muscled, caught her around the shoulders and hooked into her bent legs in a classic, but no less sensual, embrace. Her eyes, violet-blue but darkened with desire, never left hers, not even looking away to steady her steps as she took the stairs.

She carried her to the bed, laying her in the soft, warm embrace of the wolf-fur coverlet on it while pressing a long, purposeful kiss on her lips, inhaling deeply, breathing in her scent, which told her just how much she wanted her. Then she backed away, standing clear of the bed, and tugged at the sash holding her tunic in its place. She tugged slowly, dragging out every second and making it as much a show for the woman on the bed as she could. She smiled coquettishly as the sash slipped its knot without so much as a whisper of sound. That left the slanted line of knots at her collarbone as the only thing keeping her tunic from sliding down her legs, and she undid them slowly, teasingly, punctuating every knot she popped loose with a sharp, molten glance at her as if she was undressing not only herself, but Bethany as well with force of unquantifiable lust.

As her hands trailed sensually along her shoulders, shrugging off her now-loose tunic, she found her eyes fixated on the woman on the bed, who was now propped up with both arms behind her, running her own appreciative gaze over her form as she revealed herself, inch by tantalizing inch. The thin silk gown, already hiked up between her arched thigh and the leg she let dangle off the side of the bed, did nothing to protect the lust-addled young woman as she breathed hard, twin, hard peaks poking out from the summits of her bountiful breasts, barely covered by the shift she had on.

She wondered at herself as she approached her. How could she have not seen the signs? How could she let some flimsy concern over a long-dead blood mage distract her from the woman she loved, not five inches away from her?

She knelt on the ground before her, deft, purposeful hands taking hold of her knees, spreading them apart slowly as she opened the door that led to her sanctum like she did countless times before. But this time it was different.

She inhaled deeply, feeling the muscles between her tense legs twitch at the rush of air on them. But even as she leaned in, her turbulent thoughts showed little desire to let her go.

_Perhaps it was the danger it posed. Swords and shields, she could handle; Simple magics, she could weather, but this pact of blood, made to creatures of another realm, it still possessed power over her. It was still capable of tearing her from who she loved. Perhaps that was the reason she let more things pass her by unnoticed._

She ran her tongue along the virginal skin of her inner thigh, tasting the bittersweet perspiration that had gathered between her legs and making her purr with demanding delight. Still, she wanted more. She could feel it.

_Perhaps it was the temptation it proffered. A pact of blood, promising a power that could sway the minds of men or run them through at one's whim, was more than enticing to those within reach of it. Such a power would, indeed, be a valuable asset. Perhaps that was why her thoughts wandered, entertaining a notion she was now susceptible to._

She spread her outer lips, her featherlike touch on her wetness making her back arch and her hips gyrate uncontrollably, and revealing, through a hurricane of writhing flesh, the single, most sensitive spot she had. She heard her moan with wanting, gasp with admonishment, beg to have her inside her, to pleasure her and make her burn even brighter.

_It's the only thing that has ever come so close to your mind, which you shared with only one person. You're afraid of what it can do, because what it can reach, it can also break, and that is one thing it won't hesitate to do._

_But it cannot break you, not unless you want it to._

She pushed. Bethany crawled backwards, suddenly unsure of her intentions.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling one of Bethany's thighs as she fell upon her perfect body, kissing a trail up her navel, suckling gently on the swollen pit of her left areola and finally landing upon her full, waiting lips, where she sighed with contentment at the feel of their bare skin in contact with one another, sharing pleasure with every touch.

"I love you, Bethany." Clarissa said. It was the oldest trick in the book, but it worked like a charm.

"I love you, too." Bethany whispered, wrapping her arms around the back of her neck, pulling the entire length of her body down on her.

The juncture between their thighs closed. They cried out as one, and the world went white.

/This makes me punch myself in the gut for botching up that blood mage scene. It could have been so much more fetching, but ah well, a chapter submitted is a chapter I cannot, for my own reasons, go back to. You'll have to go with your imagination on this one. I get the feeling, though, that this one was more mindless than I originally set it out to be. For those of you pouting at my poor handling of the situation, rest assured that it will not happen again. I do hope, however, that I've made it with my description of their relationship: cute, playful but no less serious about their affections for one another. There are, of course, more chapters to come if you think I really f*ed up on this one. Bear with me. I'm still new with this smutty thing.

Fayneir: I draw from some other authors for my fight scenes: Christopher Paolini, the author of the Inheritance Cycle, for one. He's superb at its execution. I'd like your input on this one, however. A different kind of fighting. Hopefully not one that puts you off.

R&R and come back soon!

Dareth Shiral./


	4. Words of Caution

"Aveline! Please, do come in. It's been far too long." Leandra Hawke exclaimed, genuine mirth in her eyes. Aveline couldn't help but smile back as the matriarch of the Hawke family ushered her through the front door of her estate. She ran her eyes over her discreetly. Groomed, snow-white hair; happy, infectious grey eyes and a smiling face that, despite the forty-some years of weathering it had received, still possessed a matronly, courtly beauty. She hadn't changed a bit.

_Still the motherly figure, and one who considers me family._ Aveline thought, then stopped herself.

_My family is dead._

She shook the disquieting thought from her mind and leaned against the wall of the spacious living room while Leandra disappeared to fetch her a cup of tea. She took in the plush carpet beneath her steel-toed boots, the oil painting on the wall and the crossed blades above the fireplace.

_Moving up in the world, Hawke. That was five years ago, and you're still going strong._

"Here you go, dear girl. Please, take a seat! You're among friends here." Leandra reappeared with a steaming, porcelain cup of tea in one hand, gesturing at the chairs at the writing desk with the other.

"Thank you for your hospitality, ma'am, but I'm looking for Clarissa. Are they, by any chance, around? I would like to speak with her." She said, the professional tone in her voice sounding startling and cold, even to herself.

_She considers me family._

_Why don't I feel the same way?_

If Leandra Hawke was taken aback by her impartial words, she did not show it. Instead, she laughed softly.

"Around? Of course they are! They're taking sleeping in to an entirely new level!" She said, shaking her head as if disapproving of her two daughters. "It's about time they wrapped up that beauty sleep of theirs. I'll wake them at once."

A part of her wanted to reach out, to stop her from going up the stairs and keep her with her. That part of her wanted company, companionship, from a woman that was the mother she never had; That part of her wanted to damn politics, damn the Qunari and their blasted demands and let herself unwind just for a little while.

That part of her was selfish, and she pushed it away like how she had always done it, time and time again. For a woman of her position, there was no room for selfishness and certainly no room for doubt.

Clarissa groaned sleepily as she tried to block out the elevating cacophony of knocking and muffled shouting behind her bedroom door, pulling her bedraggled head from the snug spot under Bethany's chin for just long enough to raise her voice for a sleepy murmur.

"Go away." She murmured, somewhat quieter than she had intended.

"Highborn lady or not, sleeping until two in the afternoon is nigh on unacceptable, especially in my household! You two will get out of bed this instant, attire yourselves properly and apologise to our guest, who actually has matters to attend to besides sleeping in!"

Despite being filtered by an inch's worth of imported hardwood, her mother's voice lost none of its severity and exasperation. She felt like a child again, and she planted her face into the warm creases of the coverlet, moaning out a muffled negative.

"Don't make me come in there, ladies." Leandra threatened.

Bethany stirred.

"Must we?" Clarissa asked, addressing the bleary, blinking brown eyes above her.

"In the interest of avoiding domestic violence? I think we must…" Bethany whispered sleepily. They shared a small chuckle as their eyes focused on one another, noting the absence of clothing for both of them.

"Hey." Bethany said, running an appreciative eye down Clarissa's lovely, naked features as she relived the memories of the past few hours, when she had relieved her of worries of little importance with a bribe of flesh.

"Hey yourself." Clarissa countered. If bribes were this enjoyable, she couldn't wait to see what extortion was like. Bethany caught the naughty gleam in her eye and she laughed softly, the merriment in her soft-spoken voice bringing a smile to Clarissa's lips.

"We'll just be a moment, mother." Bethany called, and in a few minutes' time, the sisters were properly dressed. To counter the heat of the Kirkwallian summer, Clarissa did away with her stuffy, cumbersome suit of armour, opting instead for a form-fitting tunic, a leather-backed vest thrown over it and a pair of leggings that slipped into her calf-high boots. She buckled onto her belt her golden sword, and her right arm her bracer. The steel gauntlet had become an integral part of her, and she noticed people treating it as an icon of hers.

_I wonder if they saw the symbol behind it. _She thought absently as she watched Bethany smoothen her shoulder-length hair, letting the waves fall upon the golden staff of Andraste on her back. The grey-and-blue Grey Warden uniform she was wearing accentuated her attractive features and adding to the air of regality she had about her, lending to her a beauty fit for both a battlemage and a noblewoman.

"Ready?" Clarissa asked when Bethany put the finishing touches of her blush on her cheeks, staring appreciatively at the full-body mirror by the wardrobe.

"I wonder who our uninvited guest i- Oh." Clarissa muttered as she opened the door, running straight into a knowing smile on Aveline's face.

"You're getting spoiled, Hawke." Aveline said, grinning.

"Aveline! What brings you to our humble abode at this time of day?" Clarissa went up and clasped a firm hand on her friend's shoulder. She did not expect to see Aveline wince from her touch, and she recoiled when she did, mumbling words of apology even as Aveline shrugged nonchalantly.

"Just a nasty bruise right where you caught me. Nothing to worry about." She said, working the sore muscles under her armour. It was only then that Clarissa saw how utterly exhausted Aveline was. The only change in her clothing was the detachment of the cumbersome shoulder plates from the night before, and the absence of the determinate light in her eyes belied the fact that she had not slept.

_She would have hauled herself back to the barracks, resolving not to sleep while the memories of the fight was still vivid so her report would be accurate. By the time she had finished, the night shift would have returned from their patrols and Aveline, no doubt, would have debriefed them before anything else. She never even _gave_ herself a chance to rest._

"Aveline… You look terrible. Have you at least gotten some sleep?" Clarissa asked.

The aversion of her friend's emerald eyes told her all she needed to know.

"Sleep when we're dead, not while I still have work to do," Aveline replied, blinking her eyes clear of the exhaustion. "The Qunari are demanding an explanation for the theft of their lost crate, and they've specifically asked for the two of you."

"Why us? Your words would have been proof enough." Bethany said.

"I don't know, Bethany. The Qunari aren't known for their transparency," Aveline said, rubbing her temples, "but we cannot afford displeasing them, not while they present a credible threat to the city."

_Such big words, when she could barely shoulder them. The safety of the entire city rests on this woman's shoulders, while her friends frolic about in bed and snore off till dusk… _She thought, a pang of guilt sounding within her.

_What kind of friend am I? I've tried telling myself I've done more than most would in my position, but are piles of gold, thrown about without consideration or afterthought, truly a just gesture of friendship?_

"We'll go see them at once, Aveline. And when we're done, you're coming by for supper." Clarissa said, the smile on her face inviting and insistent.

"But…"

"No buts. The Guard will not fare any better with a half-dead captain at its helm. Mother would welcome an extra person at the table, anyway," Clarissa cut her off, looking to her mother for verbal support, "would she not?"

"Why, of course she would!" Leandra cut in cheerily, laying a gentle hand on Aveline's arm as if to catch her should she bolt for the door. "Bethany needs to cut down on her portions either way. We'll have just the right amount for everyone."

Bethany pouted and stared at her stomach.

"Am I that transparent?" She asked with mock exasperation, poking at her tummy with her finger.

"Not at all. You're just a bit more puffed up than you should be." Clarissa chided, grinning openly when she saw the small smile that played at Aveline's lips. She needed to smile more. It made her seem like the woman she was, and so very much more alive.

"We'll be back in time for supper, Mother," she said, leading Bethany and Aveline down the stairs and out the front door.

**XxXxX**

The walk down to the docks was a quick one, and Aveline filled them in on the Qunari's response to their encounter with the Carta gangs and the unknown elven woman the night before. In what seemed like moments, Clarissa felt the rippling breeze of wind over water on her face, and her nose wrinkled at the dour stench of stagnant water below the plentiful moors and piers jutting out into Kirkwall's harbour. The docks were more spread open when compared to Lowtown, with large, spaced-out brick-and-mortar buildings that served as private warehouses and administration offices for the various shipping companies based in the city, but the spacing and the wind did little to disperse the foul smell. The scent of heady human sweat was also present in the salty air, as dockworkers with bare chests and gruff manners passed the three of them by, hefting sacks and crates on their well-built backs and broad shoulders. Few recognised the noblewomen walking amongst them, and even fewer bothered to incline their heads and murmur a greeting.

_We could've been like them. _Clarissa heard Bethany's voice ringing in her head as she stared pensively at the labourers shuffling past them.

_ We _were _like them. It just seemed so long ago. _Clarissa answered.

"Guard-Captain." A guardsman on patrol nodded at Aveline, who nodded in acknowledgement. When he passed out of earshot, Clarissa heard her sigh heavily.

"The docks are a dangerous place. Every day, I come down here in inspection. Every day, I fear Guardsman Evette would not be on his route, for some bandit would have slit his throat. We just don't have enough men." Aveline said.

"I thought you told me you had recruits coming in by the dozens." Clarissa said.

"I do, but most of them won't be ready for another two years. You may have provided incentive for the people to join our ranks, but for the increase in quantity, we paid in quality." Aveline remarked, "I've had to pull two patrols daily to babysit the recruits."

"The Guard is falling apart, Hawke. Every day, I see bandits and highwaymen lurking in the shadows, waiting for us to slip up. And when we do…" Aveline looked into Clarissa's eyes, and she saw genuine fear in the resolute shieldmaiden's gaze.

"You'll get through this, Aveline. The Guard follows you. They trust you, and so does the people of Kirkwall." Clarissa said, "_I_ trust you. You just have to get through these two years."

They were silent afterwards, and they turned left onto a road that led to the easternmost end of the docks, running along the placid shore of the harbour. Looking out onto the harbour to her right, Clarissa saw the faint outline of the Gallows, shrouded by the misty waters. The road was strangely deserted, as were the empty sandstone buildings that lined it, long since fallen to disrepair and lack of use. A striking banner of red, dominated by a plain, white triangle, stood in front of a large doorway on the left side of the road. It was the only doorway on the lonely road.

"We're here." Aveline said simply, leading the sisters to the double pillars that flanked the doorway, making it seem shrunken into the high, implacable sandstone walls that obscured vision of what lay behind it.

A lone Qunari stood guard at the wooden door, which was over three stories high. The Qunari tightened his grip on his long, sleek spear, as if to both block an attack with it or brandish it for throwing. All the while, however, his face was dispassionate, and his grey eyes were uninterested when they landed upon the three humans at his kind's doorstep.

"Sataareth," Aveline spoke clearly, without emotion, as if reciting a name she had memorised beforehand, "we have come by request of the Arishok."

"The Arishok did not expect such a swift response. You may proceed." The Qunari warrior replied, standing aside to grant them entry. As she passed him, Clarissa felt the eyes of the Qunari guard on her, appraising her with a cold gaze. She suppressed a shiver and walked past, holding her head level.

A gift from Viscount Marlowe Dumar to the Qunari when they had shipwrecked on the Wounded Coast, the Qunari compound was an isolated but open-topped rectangular building originally constructed with a dry dock in mind. It consisted of an open courtyard that served as a square for the Qunari, who mostly kept to themselves with their predetermined tasks. A staircase made of pure sandstone led up to a throne that overlooked the entirety of the square, with the remnants of what seemed to be a ship's forward sails stretched out on top of it. Long, draping banners of white triangles over a red background hung from pillars protruding from the otherwise bare walls. It was a foreign place, out of place in a human city and, as a result, shunned by the people who lived there. The compound itself was far from the hustle and bustle of the docks, as was the intent when the Viscount gave it to the Qunari. It kept the rabble-rousers away from the beasts, and safeguarded the innocent civilians from them.

As it were, every Qunari in the square turned to fix their eyes upon the three human women amongst them. It did not show in their passive expressions, but Clarissa felt the hostility in the air.

They were not welcome.

They approached the staircase warily, cautious but not to the point of being rude to the Qunari's perfectly civil invitation. They were aware of the two Qunari flanking the throne, both more richly tattooed than the others, staring down at them with apparent disgust. One of them turned to the side, lifting a cloth that covered the entrance into the inner sanctums of the compound and whispering to someone behind it. Then he returned to his previous position and was stone still once more.

The piece of cloth ruffled as a broad, gauntleted hand brushed it aside. A figure hunching his back emerged from behind it, the wide shoulders and thick, muscled arms belying the fact that he stood nearly eight feet tall. A pair of twisted, scratched horns protruded from the sides of his head, setting him apart from the backswept horns of his kin. A set of flanged, inch-thick shoulder plates were the only articles of clothing on his upper body, save for a crisscrossing pair of hard leather straps holding the plates in their place. It only served to enhance the overall appearance of inhuman strength and size that inspired both fear and respect. He wore only a simple robe, cut at the waist and ending at his ankles, as a testament to the poor conditions his kind were subject to as refugees, from the dents in his armour to the plain leather sandals he had on his calloused feet. His black, beady eyes, expressionless but undoubtedly intelligent, assessed the humans before him as he eased himself into his throne, in complete control of his surroundings.

Slowly, perhaps inevitably, Clarissa felt his eyes land on her.

"Serah Hawke." The Arishok stated plainly, emotionless. His voice was deep and gruff, possessed of an air of unquestioned authority and a tone of perpetual threat. It chilled Clarissa to the bone. "We have heard much about you."

"You know me?" Clarissa asked haltingly, unsure of what to say. Should she feel honoured, to be recognised by the leader of their kind, or should she feel threatened, to be singled out, potentially as someone dangerous?

"The Qun does not preach ignorance. We are aware of the city and its inhabitants. Specifically, you." The Arishok intoned. "The lowly sellsword who rose through the ranks to win glory for herself and her name; the protector of the weak and the unworthy, and Basoran Vehl among the ignorant Dathrasi that plague this pitiful city. Yes, we know of you."

"Basoran Vehl?" Clarissa asked.

"We consider you worthy of respect, in accordance to the standards of your kind. Regardless of your actions, your motives are pure, if unguided." The Arishok replied.

"We come before you, Arishok, to relate to you the circumstances that led to the theft of your property at the Foundry district warehouses, just this past night." Aveline cut in.

The Arishok chuckled. "Have you come then, Karasten, to relate to me your incompetence as the guardian of this city, the enforcers of law and order for this unruly, petulant excuse of a country? Have you come to advertise the fact that this 'Guard' of yours has to rely on the help of common citizens to keep themselves safe?"

Aveline's figure tensed as she attempted to weather the insults hurled at her. Clarissa felt anger flare to life within her. She did her best to suppress it. Her fingers reached for her sword. She willed them away.

"I assure you, Arishok, that we have done everything in our power to apprehend the ones responsible for this crime. My men are running down leads at this very moment, and we will uncover the whereabouts of your stolen cargo and return them to you with all haste." Aveline explained, her confidence somewhat diminished.

"The cargo is of no consequence," The Arishok said, looking down upon the Guard-captain, "but through this debacle, we have assessed your ability to maintain law and order in lieu of the freedoms you grant your people."

"Do you think the Qunari to be blind? The Beresaad have been monitoring the warehouse in question long before you arrived. We knew of the ambush; we knew of your failure to hold off simple Imekari while the elven thief escaped. We listened to your counsel to not take matters into our own hands. We shall not do so again."

"Arishok, you cannot-" Aveline started, then was cut off as the Arishok sprang from his seat, muscles rippling and eyes red with anger.

"I cannot? And what should I do while your pathetic Guard tries futilely to hold this flea-ridden city together? What should I do while Vashedan spit on us and insult us as they do the poor and the weak?" He snarled and spat, "the strong tread upon the weak, and you do nothing! The weak turn on themselves and brings disease to the afflicted, and you do _nothing_! The only reason your Guard is still standing is because of her!"

Clarissa blanched as Aveline stiffened in indignant anger, her white, colourless hand reaching for her sword.

"Your armour, your sword and your shield, are they not paid for with her coin? Are the Kabethari you say to be your recruits not mindless sheep herded to you by her? And you ask me to stand by and do nothing, while you do the same?" The Arishok demanded, and for the first time Clarissa noticed the broad-faced axe and the serrated broadsword lying beside the throne.

For a brief, tense moment, all was silent in the Qunari compound. The call of seagulls rang from above the high walls, as if cheering at the silent conflicts taking place in both heart and mind.

At last, Aveline inhaled deeply and spoke.

"I have no quarrel with your people, Arishok. But if you insist on employing violent methods that may harm Kirkwall and its citizens, the Kirkwall City Guard will respond. And should that come to pass, you'll find us to be capable of much more than kind words of caution." She said, every word riveted in hate and legitimate threat.

With that, she turned and walked away, the footfalls of her steel-toed boots loud on the ground.

"Arishok, surely such insults were not necessary." Bethany said, resolving to be as diplomatic as she could. It took every ounce of restraint she had to not have the towering giant burst into flames.

"It was no insult, but truth. I will tell you this, Saarebas: we are a tolerant people, but your kind has pushed and pushed and dove at our limits for far too long." The Arishok said, eyeing Bethany with distrust. Turning to Clarissa, he spoke again.

"Pray that we find our charge soon, Serah Hawke. The duty of the Qun demands the righting of wrongs, be it through the teachings of the Ben-Hassrath," he said, looking her in the eye, "or by the strong arm of the Antaam."

If there ever was one word she remembered in the Qunari language, it was that word.

_Army._

"Now, leave us."

They departed wordlessly but, as they left, Clarissa's anger shone through, and the armoured fist she kept balled at her side flared into silent, blue flame. It disappeared as soon as it came to be, but as Clarissa looked back, she saw a hint of wariness in the Arishok's eyes. Perhaps, even, a glint of fear.

/Why is it that whenever I want to take some time off of Trigonometry and imaginary numbers, I end up writing for 2 hours straight? Nevertheless, the Qunari are an interesting people to write about, being the _militant Islamic Borg_ of their time. I may be young, but I've watched Star Trek. O.o

Spike: It just seems to me that I fail horribly when I'm describing the emotion between characters, like I'm trying to make it be not just about sex, but I just end up with a pile of garbage that does nothing to get people excited or invested in their relationship. Infuriating, but not so much as revision. Aha!

Exams tomorrow. Wish me luck with favourites and reviews? Trust me it works.

It really does.

Panahedan./


	5. Words of Comfort

_Upward slash, downward cleave. Left parry, right swing._

Aveline Vallen refused to give herself pause, working her tiring sword arm to its limits even as the practice dummy in front of her creaked in protest, begging her not to add another gouge to the criss-crossed collection it had already collected over the past six hours. Grunting a negative, as if refusing her inanimate sparring partner its well-deserved rest. After all, it had the scars to tell about it.

So did she.

Restarting the cycle of her form once again, she positioned herself directly in front of the swaying, wooden approximation of a man, her eyes focused and unwavering as if staring down a feral wolf. Her sword hand, thoroughly drenched in sweat and visibly gleaming with perspiration, was as steady as when she first drew her ubiquitous longsword. It was a common sight in the barracks, as it was standard issue for the Guard.

_Paid for by _her_._

_ Upward slash, downward cleave. Left parry, right swing._

The sword flexed and shifted in her grip without hitch or snag, every movement of every muscle carefully calculated and weighed upon by her practised mind. Precise and flowing, it reflected the affinity with swordplay she had possessed at a young age. Her father, once a proud Chevalier, had groomed her at birth to become a knight. But as with all knights, their propensities differ. Some prefer greatswords – heavy, hard-hitting and prone to collateral damage; some prefer lances and spears – far-reaching, exceedingly dangerous and geared towards fighters with a knack for showmanship. The choices were many and varied, but she recalled nothing of her indecision.

Indeed, her first and only choice was a round, wooden buckler, paired with a simple longsword that provided both reach and finesse. Although she had outgrown the pie-sized buckler quickly, she took up bigger, heavier bulwarks with no doubt in her mind, right up until she marched off to war with the Darkspawn. She was the only shield-bearer in her company, and she had saved a number of her comrades from the clutches of the Darkspawn by leaping to their defense with her steel kite shield held high and a loud battle cry on her lips.

"Iron lady," they called her, a name that reflected both the steel on her arm and the iron in her resolve. She was a protector, a guardian, an unflinching shieldmaiden without equal, at least until she met him.

He had accepted the duty thrust upon him without question. He had taken the vow to pit his mortal self against the wrath of those from another realm, upholding the laws of the Maker with single-minded determination. He was a protector like her, but what he fought against was far more terrible than what she had to face. She admired him for that. She grew to love him for that, too.

He had been the only one by her side when she grieved for the loss of her brothers-in-arms, when her entire company perished in defense of a caravan lost in the Kocari Wilds. Their captain had fallen first, and the rest of the men elected Aveline to be the one to lead the lost villagers and refugees to safety while they held off the encroaching horde. She did not witness it with her own eyes, but she heard their cries from afar.

He had been the one in charge of the healers tending to the caravan's wounded, and he had approached her when she waved off a young circle mage's offer to treat her. He had brushed past her barriers when she isolated herself, took away her grief when she blamed herself and loved her when she loathed herself. She should've been there, dying at the side of her friends, her brothers-in-arms, but then again, she couldn't do that anymore.

Not when she found her reason for living again.

_But what happens when your cause for living dies? What do you do when all that sustains you fades away?_

She stopped mid-stroke, the thought putting a halt to both body and mind.

_Have I answered that question?_

_ Does anyone have the answer?_

She felt exhaustion creep into her limbs as her momentary respite gave her body time and opportunity to rebel against her. She wanted to press on, to rid herself of bitter, plaguing memories by losing herself in the comforting routine of training, but she could not. Already, she felt his hands, gentle and comforting, tugging at her raised sword arm, asking her to stop. She felt tears well in her eyes, something she hadn't felt for nigh on five years. Not a day has passed that she did not long for his touch.

_I miss you, Wesley._

The sound of an opening door, creaking on its rusted hinges, brought Aveline abruptly back to the present with a gasp. She gingerly wiped away her tears with the back of her free hand and breathing heavily to mask the hiccups and sobs that had, not moments ago, racked her. She turned her back to the door, hoping whoever came through had not seen the tears on her face.

_I am Guard-captain._

She forced her hand to steady, bringing her arm up, then down. Left, then right. With each blow, her frustration mounted and her thoughts, recently unhinged, strayed to an image of the Qunari.

_Horned and tattooed._

_ Towering and sneering._

If nothing else, rage could be a formidable source of strength.

Growling under her breath, Aveline twisted round and, reversing her grip on the hilt, stabbed at the wooden dummy at her back as it swayed madly, as if to dodge the piercing blow. She felt a tremor run through her as the initial impact of tempered steel on battered wood redirected the force of her blow back through her. Her ears became immaculately sensitive then, and she could hear, over the sound of approaching footsteps, the straining and splintering of wood as cold, hard steel forced its way into the lifeless yet keening pretense of a man. She wondered, then, if she was losing her mind.

_That would be unfortunate,_ she thought absently as she pulled the sword free and turned round to examine the finger-wide wound that, had it been inflicted upon a person, would have bled him dry before he could so much as gasp. She shifted her gaze as the lone guardsman stood loosely at attention, a pair of makeshift wooden swords cradled in his hands.

"Captain." The guardsman said, his voice rich and deep. It took her a moment to recognise the frazzled mane of brown locks, the wide, sincere, olive-coloured eyes and the square jaw and pair them with the voice she knew. It was Donnic Hendyr, one of her most trusted subordinates.

"Guardsman Hendyr. What brings you here?" Aveline asked. A moot question, as she saw the concern in his eyes and discerned his intentions all too easily.

Proving himself to be resourceful, he gestured at the broken, creaking dummy at her side, only a few strokes from being ground into sawdust.

"Thought you'd appreciate a flesh-and-blood replacement," he said, smiling good-naturedly, "if you're up for it, of course."

Aveline smiled despite herself. She had developed a fondness for the friendly, honest guardsman during their five years in the Guard together. He had seen her claw through the ranks of the Guard, from a common patrolwoman to patrol leader, then lieutenant, then taking the traitorous Jeven's place as Guard-captain. He had crowed when she took the job, knowing that a fine woman had replaced the man who had left him for dead. Since then, he has proved himself to be a capable, dependable guardsman, silently standing by Aveline through the ups and downs of the Guard and, in turn, herself.

Moving the maimed dummy to the side of the training grounds, guardsman and guardswoman squared off on the tiled floor. One foot over the other, they circled one another, eyes pinned onto one another's faces, swords upright and steady.

Suddenly, Donnic smiled, an innocent, frank smile like the one he always wore on his face, only magnified by his momentary enjoyment. Aveline could see why he smiled – neither of them took upon themselves the risk of engaging, opting for a more passive approach as they waited for the other to betray his or her intentions. It was a tense, exhilarating game of patience, and they were both enjoying it. Aveline felt a smile curl the corner of her lips.

And that was when Donnic struck.

He darted forward, the cheer in his eyes melted by a determinate fire and the apparent laxation in his stance hardening into a quick, straight thrust, lunging at Aveline without warning. Her eyes flared as she sidestepped nimbly, barely avoiding the wooden sword. Because of his speed, she did not have the luxury of examining his approach, as a passive duelist should have done.

She had lost her advantage.

She made to bat away Donnic's overextended sword hand with her own, which would have left him wide open for her attacks had he not withdrawn his arm with startling speed, twirling his sword tight around his body as he brought it down in a diagonal strike. The subsequent blow forced Aveline on the defensive, as she could not have risked a counterattack while his sword was about to slice her open.

She grunted as the full brunt of the blow struck the flat of her blade, jolting her arm and surprising her with the strength thrown behind it. Frantic, she wove a protective web around her with her sword, parrying and blocking every blow Donnic hurled at her as their battle raged on.

Only it was less of a battle, and more of a siege.

She found herself backing up, needing more room between her pressing opponent and herself to organise an effective defense. A shadow fell over her, and she felt a cool slab of stone behind her, forcing her to stop and grind their locked blades down to the hilt to half his push.

He had her back against the wall.

_How? _Aveline thought bitterly, frustration forming as a knot in her stomach, twisting her insides and dividing her attention. She was Guard-captain; She was the better swordswoman. Why was she losing to him?

_What's wrong with losing to him?_

_I don't kn- because it just _is_!_

Her thoughts rebelled against her, taking the smoking frustration and anger from the past few months and striking a match in their midst. Her emerald eyes, usually keen and focused, lost their calm, collected gleam; Her thin lips, normally pensive and thoughtful, split wide into a silent snarl.

She felt her breath quicken, deepen, the fresh air taken in barely enough to disturb the raging fire burning within her. She felt her every muscle clench in agitated fury, prompting her arm to draw back for a reckless swing that, if connected, would have surely drawn blood, even with a dull edge.

She cried out silently as her unstoppable force met an unbreakable shield.

The wall behind her.

The pain she felt was not of the impact of her arm, nor of the chipped stonework biting into her skin.

It was the feeling of utter, bitter defeat.

Donnic's blade had her own trapped against the wall in no time, pinning her bucking arm with it. A brief, tense moment passed between them, the lively scent of perspiration and the hotness of their breath not lost on the locked fighters, their proximity making their eyes meet. Aveline panted. She hadn't exerted herself so much from a sparring session for Maker knows how long, but she didn't feel tired.

She felt alive.

Slowly, the victorious gleam in Donnic's eyes faded and was replaced by something else. Aveline froze at the intensity with which her fellow guardsman stared into her burning emerald eyes, washing away every last bit of frustration she had, in heated combat, harboured for the man not an inch away. His panting breaths made her skin tingle, his broad frame eclipsing her vision, leaving her with nowhere to hide. Even the oppressive strength of his wooden sword pressing her arm against the prickling stone felt… exhilarating.

He backed away from her, breaking the sword lock and allowing her arm to drop bonelessly beside her. Her furious strength fled her in an instant, leaving her breathless as Donnic inclined his head at a well-fought spar. It struck her then that she was actually expecting something.

_What just happened to me?_

It was yet another question she had no answer to. With the wall behind her being the only thing keeping her upright, thought became irrelevant and somewhat redundant. Instead, her thoughts relived the moment in an endless loop. She smelled his breath on her skin again, saw his wide, masculine body dwarf her, felt his overpowering strength pinning her against the wall.

Then, it turned to something else; something hot and forbidden; something she rejected yet yearned for the moment she visualised it. This had not been the first time she had drummed up such a scene in her mind.

Frantically, she pushed it away.

_No. Not now._

"He's wrong about you, Aveline." Donnic said, throwing the bent, makeshift sword into the pile at the corner. Aveline froze again. He had called her by her name.

_Not Guard-captain._

_Aveline._

"We remember everything you've done for us, and for the people of this city." Donnic continued, turning back to look Aveline in the eye. Aveline saw no doubt in his gaze.

"What we do may not be glamourous. It may not rake in piles of coin every single time. Damn it, sometimes even the people we protect spit on us and forget what we do for them.

"But we still do it. We still do our part, as we've done so for five years, even when we understand full well that we can't save everyone or even make a dent in this city, and do you know why?"

Aveline had no answer to his question, at least not audibly. Deep inside, she screamed.

_No._

"Because we have you at the helm." Donnic said, still unflinching in his gaze. "It doesn't matter how sharp our swords are, how thick our armour is or how comfortable our boots are. We don't follow those.

"We follow you."

Aveline fought valiantly against the tears, but it was Ostagar all over again. They broke through her ranks, exposing her for what she truly were – a broken, despaired woman beaten down by those around her.

"Don't let that Qunari get to you, captain. After all, he's Qunari. How could he understand the sacrifices a human makes for her family?" Donnic smiled, that good-natured grin of his surfacing once more.

"Well," Aveline croaked, her voice broken, "he _is _the Arishok." The pitch of her voice wavered and shook, something she hadn't heard for a long time. It felt wonderful.

So? Under the law, he's just another grey giant who needs to be put in his place." Donnic said, grinning ear-to-ear now.

Aveline chuckled, the breaking of her emotional dam taking her inhibitions along with it. It felt wonderful.

"Come, captain. The morning shift will be back soon. Wouldn't want them to see you heartbroken and all." Donnic said, holding the creaking door open for his Guard-captain.

As she passed him, she felt a spark of electricity run down her side where her arm grazed his armour. She tossed him a glance, then averted her eyes as she saw his eyes on her.

"Not a word, captain." Donnic said and, though he did not see it with his own eyes, he felt her smile. He smiled as well.

/Short one. I just finished my exams, don't hate.

Primrosered: Thank you! I also want to dabble in the relationships of her friends, too. Hope you don't mind. I am also immensely glad that you enjoy my writing!

Spike: I did see it! It helped! I swear!

I am just dabbling in too much fun right now. First the militant Islamic Borg, now Lady Manhands! Clarissa and Bethany are... uh... not in right now. They'll be back soon though. Please drop me some reviews and tell me what you think about my take on Aveline! Or just drop me a review for no reason at all that works too.

Dareth Shiral./


	6. Just Like Old Times

"The illustrious Lady Hawke! If I didn't know better, I'd go as far as to call you a regular!" Corff the bartender hailed, the half-cleaned mug in his hand raised high in an affectionate salute. Normally, the lords and ladies of Hightown kept to themselves with their fancy wine tastings and extravagant masquerade balls, but that stereotype had somewhat diminished with the advancement of Clarissa Hawke among Kirkwall's nobility. One could easily spot the beautiful, wealthy noblewoman by the waving of her fiery hair, alight from the candlelight dancing from strand to strand, and the sound of her audacious laughter, boisterous and jovial, drawing both eyes and ears to her and the extraordinary company she kept.

And extraordinary would indeed be the word to describe the woman who never left her side. A feared, hated rival of some nobles, but a dear, cherished friend to many more, Bethany Hawke was, in some ways, more influential than her elder in the inner circles of Kirkwallian politics. A shrewd diplomat in complete control of her courtly beauty and fetching charisma, she was respected by nobility and loved by the common people as a voice firmly on their side. But for all their love for her, they were, at times, more attracted to the sisters' more unlikely acquaintances.

Sometimes, that acquaintance would be the tavern-favourite storyteller – Varric Tethras, who would most often be heard spinning the wildest tales about anything and everything that struck his fancy at the given moment.

Sometimes, it would be the raunchy, salacious Pirate Queen – Isabela, who would invariably down the most amount of drink in the least amount of time among all the patrons in the tavern, doing shot after shot on increasingly niche parts of her body, and that of others'.

Sometimes, it would be the hearty, roguish apostate mage Anders, shaking his head at the drunken mishaps of his friends in mock disapproval, only to emulate and one-up their efforts moments later.

Sometimes, it would be the beaming, childlike Dalish outcast named Merrill, smiling along nervously and giggling when they gawked at her strange yet incessant questions about anything, everything and then some.

And, several nights a week, this collection of nobility, buccaneers and apostates could be seen huddled around an unadorned, unassuming wooden table like so many other groups of friends gathering for mellow drink and pleasant company, be they miners or dockworkers, merchants or craftsmen, Marcher or Fereldan. They never begrudged the rowdy laughter of men losing themselves in the depths of their tankards, nor did they frown upon the appraising stares of curious individuals wondering at the presence of two, sometimes three, stunning women mingling with them, the common rabble of Lowtown, Kirkwall. If anything, the two scions of the Hawke family enjoyed being among the unpretentious and the carefree.

That, and they dared not risk the ancestral property of the Amells receiving more decorative tattoos of bountiful bosoms or being burned to the ground by party tricks involving fire and lightning. The Hanged Man would have to do.

"That's because you really do not, Corff, speed griffons and all." Clarissa hollered back, a sly smile on her lips as the bartender's eyes bulged, pressing a finger to his mouth.

"Ah, Izzy's right over there, milady. As usual." Corff said, motioning with a flick of his head.

Clarissa made her way to the table he had indicated, her path around the other tables keeping her just within earshot of the bar and, through the shouts, cries and ovations of the packed tavern, she heard a man snickering at Corff's unintentional revelation.

"Speed griffons, hmm?"

Clarissa inclined her head to the pair of gentlemen parting in their seats to allow Bethany and her passage. The overlapping sounds of laughter washed over them, ringing pleasantly in her ears and adding an aural complement to the warm musk of mead, ale and beer in the air. A few of the overcrowded tavern's less intoxicated patrons recognised the noblewomen in their midst, and raised their mugs in greeting.

"Hail, Lady Hawke!" They shouted over the din.

Clarissa nodded quickly in their vague direction, not wanting to reveal the blush that had crept into her cheeks. She had never gotten used to being singled out for her fame and fortune. In her hurried aversion from further attention, though, she failed to notice the pair of maroon eyes shooting up from their downcast position, latching onto the casually dressed but no less stunning woman approaching her table. In spite of the curious and exceedingly rare colour, the blood-red eyes and, indeed, the woman they belonged to, attracted little to no attention from the patrons around her.

Perhaps it was because of the fashion she had attired herself, covering herself completely in black leathers that clung to her tall, lean figure like a second skin, save for a long, dark-purple cloak trailing down her back, secured by a silver brooch around her neck. It was an unassuming outfit, tailored for neither attraction nor flattery and certainly out of place in an otherwise cheerful and lively atmosphere. Coupled with the slim hood she draped over her head and the dim lighting of the tavern, the woman was, quite practically, a stranger drifting amongst a sea of friendly faces, hidden and secluded.

Or perhaps it was because of the woman next to her, whose actions and mannerisms seemed to attract the attentions of everyone within earshot, which was basically the entire tavern. Golden necklaces and bangles radiated their dirtied, yet nonetheless dazzling brilliance every which way as they jingled and bounced, responding to the repetitive movements of the woman wearing them. Much of it was lost to the musky, smoky air of the tavern, but the sound of her hollering carried through where the reflected rays could not. The golden bracelets on her right hand jingled against one another as she motioned for the waitress, Norah, to come over. From the disgruntled look on Norah's face and the whispered curses on her lips as she made her way through the tables, it was not the first time the well-tanned woman had called her over.

"I said, bring me something heavier! What is this, mead?" The woman shouted over the ballad of drunken men, women and, thank the Maker, young adults, adding lyric to an otherwise chaotic symphony.

_Chocolate skin, a fiery temper and swashbuckling drinking habits._

_Typically Isabela._

"This here's the strongest stiff we have. There ain't anything else in the damn city better than this, save for that disgusting swill they sell down in Darktown." Norah retorted, snatching the mug from Isabela's hand.

"You're holding out on me, barmaid. I just know it!" Isabela shot back, her face flushed from alcohol and excessive anger.

_Angry Isabela, _Clarissa mused, preferring to enjoy the free entertainment while it lasted.

_Check. _Bethany thought, the sight of the raunchy pirate in heated argument with the barmaid in front of cheering and guffawing men too much of an amusement for her to ignore or put a stop to.

"_Waitress_!" Norah's normally diminutive figure puffed up as she swelled in indignant fury. Even standing at full height, Isabela still stood taller than the woman. As the patrons turned towards the commotion, however, it was clear that while Norah lacked in physical intimidation, she more than made up for it with her shrill, lady-of-the-house voice, shouting the Pirate Queen down with every last breath in her body.

"_Wench_!" Isabela leered, laughed and leaned towards the angry woman, daring her to strike the first blow. While the word itself was nothing new to Norah, the condescending tone with which it was spoken touched quite a few nerves.

_Infantile Isabela, _Clarissa chuckled, laughing openly when she turned and saw Bethany snickering behind a raised hand.

_Check! _Bethany managed, her eyes widening in guilty delight when Norah raised her hand in preparation of a stinging, audacious slap that would most definitely rouse the Viscount in his bedchambers.

All the while, the woman seated beside the originally placid Isabela remained motionless, making no move to join in with the tavern's other patrons in their spectating, nor to depart from the eye of the verbal, and rapidly becoming physical, hurricane.

_We'd better do something before Izzy decides to whip out the daggers. _Bethany remarked, wiping the smirk from her face as she pushed through circle of men looking on with anticipation. The people parted when they realised the woman seeking passage was not just another party-goer vying for front-row seats.

"Alright, Izzy. You've made your point. Now, calm your rabble-rousing self down." Bethany said, pulling Isabela back and patting her on the cheek. Clarissa felt a shimmer of magic in the air and Isabela blinked suddenly, as if waking up from an alcohol-addled dream.

She turned her eyes away from the fuming Norah, running along the circle of men watching her, eager for further drama. She ran her hand through her short, unkempt hair, a look of mild, unwilling apology.

"Sorry, boys. Show's over." She said, a devious smile finding its way onto her lips.

There was an audible exhale of pent-up tension and excitement as the men lost interest, although none of them dared voice their dissatisfaction to the neatly-dressed but strangely intimidating woman in their midst. Isabela paid them no mind, however. She simply slumped onto the bench, jumping when Norah slammed a mug of ale in her face.

"On the house. Corff's buying." Norah said simply, plainly, then briskly walked away from the table as Clarissa and Bethany took their seats.

"What was that all about?" Clarissa asked, fighting to keep her amusement hidden, "you're never this early."

"That's because the hideout we were soiling ourselves in turned out to be even worse of a dump than I first thought!" Isabela cried, raising the mug, filled to the brim, to her lips. A moment later, a hollow mug slammed back down onto the table, and Clarissa reached out just in time to pull Isabela's arm back down.

"I think you've had quite enough for tonight, Izzy." Clarissa said, a sincere, apologetic smile on her lips.

"I don't know, Hawke! All I can think about right now is getting that relic back, and how Castillon will have my arse in, say, a few weeks' time." Isabela said, wrenching her arm from Clarissa's grip. She did not call for another drink, however. Instead, she planted her face into her hands, groaning. As she did so, Clarissa saw shallow, but numerous cuts lining her tanned skin.

"Maker, Izzy, you're bleeding! Arse getting had or not, you're can't go traipsing off on your own!" Bethany, the more experienced healer of the two, seized possession of Isabela's arm and laid it flat on the table.

"Who said I was alone?" Isabela asked incredulously.

Clarissa felt a kick under the table, directly in front of her. She tore her eyes from Isabela's arms just as the silent, almost invisible woman sitting not five feet across from her drew back her hood, revealing scrutinising, piercing red eyes and a slanted, catlike face, staring directly into Clarissa with an enigmatic expression she couldn't quite place.

"K-Katja." Clarissa stammered, suddenly at a loss for words. How long had it been since she last saw her? Three years? Four? She had assumed the dark-skinned elf had departed for reasons of her own, perhaps even to report back to the Grey Wardens.

Katja inclined her head, a small smile finding its way onto her lips. The piercing quality of her gaze did not recede with her smile, however, and Clarissa inwardly wondered at the hidden emotions she saw, but could not identify.

"Lucky for me, Katja here had something in common with women traipsing off on their own, and she lent me a hand in clearing the cave." Isabela said, "not that I _really_ needed her help. I was just outnumbered, nothing I couldn't handle."

Bethany tightened the bandages, making Isabela flinch and let slip a curse in the midst of a hissed breath. Crimson splotches emerged from beneath the bandages

"Point taken." Bethany remarked, tying a neat knot on the white cloth wrapped securely round Isabela's muscled, but still velvety soft, right arm.

"I mean, it was nice and all to bump into Katja after all this time, but her not showing up when she did would not have made much difference for me." Isabela extrapolated desperately, yelping when Bethany poked at the bandage to check for seepage.

"Why _were _you out on the Wounded Coast anyway?" Clarissa asked, perplexed. "You've been gone for so long."

"Me? I got a tip from-" Isabela started, then bit her tongue when she realised the question was not directed at her. She fell silent as Clarissa and Katja held each others' gazes, as if a sudden rivalry had emerged between the elf and the human, which was partly true. Clarissa never got to say goodbye to the elusive, dark-skinned assassin when she left for parts unknown.

"My reasons for leaving are my own, and I do not wish to explain myself." Katja replied, her tone cold and distant. There was something else hidden behind it, but Clarissa, Bethany and Isabela failed to pick up on it.

Instead, Clarissa winced with hurt. She considered Katja to be among her inner circle of friends, and she did not forget how instrumental she was in her rescue of Bethany from the Grey Wardens. Had the past few years driven a wedge between them? Why was she so… _cold?_

Realising her tone, Katja bowed her head slightly.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to be inhospitable, but I would appreciate if you did not press me on the matter."

Clarissa's heart softened with sadness.

_A friend would never have to ask that._

"Let sleeping dogs lie, Hawke! It's not like you could've spared the time to send her off all those years ago." Isabela cut in, trying to defuse the situation and dissolve the tension in the air. Bethany picked up on her endeavour immediately.

"I propose a toast!" she crowed, raising her mug in the air. Her capacity for drink has improved somewhat over the years, but by last count, it only took three mugs of ale or a decanter of wine to render her flustered and slightly incoherent.

Four wooden mugs reunited in the musky, stifling air of the Hanged Man Tavern, bringing together a noblewoman, a mage, a pirate and a Dalish assassin after long years of parting. The sickly yellow, slightly putrid ale within the mugs, quite possibly poured from the same cask in a mold-infested corner of the tavern, then went down four separate throats, making them burn and tingle at the familiar sensation of alcohol. A chorus of wood hammering against wood then sounded, as each individual took in differing amounts of the beverage – Bethany downing a mouthful, Clarissa doubling her efforts once again, Katja gulping until her breath failed her and Isabela, who swallowed again and again until she retained a mouthful.

Then she turned to the side and, through a small opening in her lips, hosed the ale onto the ground.

"Norah!" she cried, "I seem to have spilled my drink!"

She looked back up, and the four of them shared a hearty, jovial laugh that drew no small amount of attention to them.

Just like old times.

/Eerily the last phrase applies to me as well. I'm back!

After the time of my life, I can finally get back to doing what I love. I've missed this, and I've missed you all!

More chapters will be coming!

R&R!/


	7. Scars of the Past

The heat clung to Clarissa's body like a lingering aura as she slammed the door to the estate shut, relieved to be out of the scorching rays of the Kirkwallian sun. Because of the northerly location of Kirkwall in Thedas, summers in the City of Chains were long, baking hot and only occasionally humid.

"When's the next inspection again?" Bethany asked, fanning herself with one hand while she seated herself on the bench, undoing the laces on her boots.

"Not for a few months." Clarissa replied. She had invested a sizable sum of her Sovereigns into the Bone Pit mines, which she jointly ran with Hubert, a merchant by trade and an entrepreneur by heart. Five years ago, she had rescued the Bone Pit from Hubert's asinine management blunders by throwing in most of the Sovereigns she had scrounged up and brought together through the odd jobs she had done in Kirkwall. After venturing into the smog-filled, dragon-infested shafts of the mine, she had seen with her own eyes the potential it held, something the vain and timid Hubert never sought to find out, and she threw caution to the wind with her small fortune. Truth be told, she wouldn't have been able to come up with the coin to make herself a partner in the extorting dwarf's venture after her risky investment.

But then again, she did not join the expedition anyway. She had undertaken a very different adventure of her own, and had returned carrying something far more valuable than Deep Roads treasure in her arms, and deep within her heart.

During her expedition north, however, the mine struck gold, or rather something very close to it. Silverite, in short supply for the various city-states in the Free Marches, had been discovered in abundance in the deep bowels of the mine. The discovery was made by a Fereldan miner, who credited sturdy pickaxes and "good, old-fashioned, Fereldan sweat and blood" when Clarissa came back finding the Bone Pit safe, efficient and operating on a larger scale than ever. Since then, Clarissa has made it her duty to regularly inspect the mine for potential dangers and to ensure Hubert was treating the miners, Marcher and Fereldan alike, equally. She made it a point to stick with her schedule throughout the year, regardless of the extreme weather that swept through the valley annually. It was not like she anything better to do, but there were times she contemplated leaving the miners without supervision, what with the stark contrast between the warmth and safety of her estate and the unforgiving conditions of the mines. Winters were particularly tough but easy to counteract for her, for the biting cold could be held at bay by excessive layers of clothing.

The summers were the worst.

"Thank the Maker!" Bethany exhaled, relieved. She tugged at the long sleeves of her tunic, mortified when the sweat between the fabric and her skin kept it stuck to her like a sticky, pungent second skin. Clarissa laughed when she saw the look on her sister's face.

"I commend your choice of clothing, serah." Clarissa said, shuffling out of her short-sleeved variant of Bethany's tunic, leaving her topless save for her smallclothes.

_To the Fade with modesty. I need a bath._

_ Race you! _Bethany's voice chimed in.

Clarissa looked round just in time to see Bethany taking the steps two at a time, sprinting for the bathroom.

She reached the door just in time for Bethany to slam it shut in her face.

"Bethany!" she cried, hands going to her hips, "open the door!"

"You can't make me!" a voice, high and complete with giggling, came muffled from behind the door. The sound of water filling up the wooden tub and exaggerated whistling came from within the bathroom.

Clarissa made a mad dash for the tunic she left on the welcome mat at the front door, then decided otherwise and went for the curtains, drawing them shut hurriedly. She would not be caught dead with the Reinhardts getting free entertainment for the night.

The door to her mother's study creaked, and Clarissa silently cursed.

"I heard noises and knew you were- oh!" Leandra Hawke opened the door to her room to find her half-naked daughter standing by the bathroom door, her expression a mixture of surprise, irritation and amusement.

"_Clarissa Hawke, _have you taken leave of your senses? Clothe yourself this instant!" Leandra decreed, bristling with motherly authority. Under normal and younger circumstances, Clarissa would have blanched and complied with her mother's wishes. This time, however, she let slip a giggle and pointed to the bathroom door, which was curiously shut tight.

"It's all her fault." Clarissa said, wrapping her free hand around her chest instinctively.

"_Bethany Hawke-_" Leandra started.

"All right! All right! You two are no fun," Bethany sighed mockingly. A moment later, there came the sound of the deadbolt being eased out of the lock.

"You may enter!" Bethany said, sounding very much like a spoiled, rich noblewoman delighting at the sight of embarrassment in the name of good fun.

"See, mother? She's so much trouble," Clarissa said, winking to Leandra, who was rolling her eyes.

"Get in there, Clarissa. You stink," she replied, smiling.

Clarissa stuck out her tongue in retaliation, fanning her face when a barrage of steam, fragrance and moisture wrapped themselves around her body and crept into her nostrils. She broke her playful stare at her mother to find Bethany's head suspended in a body of water, long, slender arms resting on either side of the spacious tub. Her face was a masque of absolute serenity, marred only by a tinge of smugness. The scent of lavender was thick in the steamy air, calming Clarissa's senses and slipping her an overwhelming desire to slip into the tub and wash the day's tires and exertions away. She quickly discarded the remaining articles of her soaked clothing, leaving her bare and eager for the touch of clean, perfumed water on her skin.

Bethany shifted her legs to accommodate for her sister as she slipped a leg in, then another, then sliding into the water with a contented sigh. They rested their heads on opposite sides of the tub, and Bethany studied the satisfied expression on Clarissa's face until she opened her eyes and caught her staring.

"What's the matter? It's not like you haven't seen me so… relaxed before." Clarissa teased, raising one of her lean, muscled legs, dripping with water, to further Bethany's apparent discomfort. Leaning back, she sighed in contentment again, closing her eyes.

"I just thought you'd have a desire to punish me for what I did." Bethany said slyly, a mischievous glint coming into her brown eyes as she returned her sister's gaze. She knew what an effect her eyes had on Clarissa and, sure enough, she shifted.

"I'd love to, but I'm just too tired at the moment. Give me… a few… minutes…" Clarissa trailed off. The soothing fragrance in the air, taking the form of massaging, relaxing hands, was getting to her. If her sister had sprinkled something other than sleep-inducing lavender, perhaps jasmine blossoms, things might have gone over differently. But the relaxing, soothing scent of purple flowers, coupled with pre-existent exhaustion, proved too much for Bethany's teasing to overcome.

Clarissa stirred as a ripple in the placid water claimed her attention from the beckons of slumber. She shook herself mentally.

_Bad idea, Clarissa. You do not want to fall asleep underwater._

Then again, she had Bethany to watch over her. The thought warmed her heart, giving her a sense of safety she would have been hard-pressed to find elsewhere.

Then it hit her that her younger sister had been unusually silent for the last few minutes, making no move to keep her from dozing off.

"Aren't you going to press your case, Bethy?" Clarissa asked, injecting as much sultriness into her voice as she could despite her exhaustion. She barely came up with the strength to form the words, much less open her eyes to see for herself what Bethany was up to.

"Clare." Bethany said. Clarissa caught the torrent of emotion running, bucking under the single, simple word, and her eyes sprang open to find a brooding Bethany. Delicate, manicured fingers lingered on one of her cheeks, and glimmering brown orbs betrayed a deep, unsettling worry.

"What is it?" she asked, grunting as she shifted her weight onto her arms, lifting herself up.

"I have freckles." Bethany answered simply, in a heavy tone that would have swept away any and all implications of jest.

Despite that, Clarissa could not help but laugh at her sister's sudden melancholy over such a trivial matter. She rested her head against a raised fist, staring at her suddenly vain younger sister. Amusement came over her, and her eyes twinkled at the merriment she felt.

"Being under a hot sun on a hot summer day for the entire day will have that effect on you, or so I'm told." She rolled her eyes, "and how does that matter, anyway? You've had freckles before. They were adorable then, and they most certainly are adorable now."

"No, no. It's not that…" Bethany trailed off. The hand that was caressing her cheek shifted upwards, covering her forehead as a person would when beset by deep troubles.

Sensing that her lover's discomfort was far beyond mere vanity, Clarissa brought herself round and, tilting herself sideways, nestled herself in the space between the tub and Bethany's arm, which she took hold of and wrapped her own arms around, pressing gentle kisses on her smooth, slick skin. Under different circumstances, either one, or both, of them would have classified Clarissa's actions to foreplay, understanding it as a pretext to bouts of pleasure and satisfaction they shared and enjoyed, but in this case they knew better. Clarissa made no move to elicit further response from Bethany, and Bethany herself simply smiled at her partner's silent prompt, calling to her both physically and mentally.

_Tell me then, love. What is it that troubles you?_

She felt her eyes shift, moving from inscrutable depths only she could see to meet her imploring eyes. She felt them linger, segregating violet from blue – violet for the affection they shared, blue for the calm she instilled in her heart – and dwelling without particular purpose on the droplets of water in her wetted auburn hair, watching them closely as they broke free of the tangled locks and rejoined the pool below.

She was still deep in thought, and she allowed her time to mull over them. She waited, patiently, knowing that she would eventually open up to her when she wanted to.

"How long has it been?" Bethany said without warning, making Clarissa blink out of the reverie she was unintentionally slipping into.

"Since what?" Clarissa asked, joining her thoughts with Bethany's to discern the entirety of her question. It was a privilege they shared, and they cherished every moment of it. Feeling the flurry of negative emotions within her, Clarissa wrapped her consciousness around Bethany's, caressing her as a mother would, licking her wounds and soothing her aches as best she could.

_Pillars of stone;_

_ Circles of mountains._

_ The chill of the __midnight__ wind;_

_ The feeling of death._

_ Creeping;_

_ Sneaking._

_ Unholy;_

_ Profane._

_ A flash of pain;_

_ An eternity of suffering._

Clarissa withdrew from Bethany's mind, shuddering at the experience.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" Bethany started, but was cut off by a barrage of questions that would have sunken a Qunari warship.

"Why are you thinking of that? Why now? What's happened? Is it the _Taint_?" Clarissa fired off a volley of queries, anxiety creeping into her voice and tension seeping into her bones. They normally avoided the last word, but in her sudden distress, she let it slip.

"Clare, stop. You're flinging water all over the place." Bethany said.

"Answer me! We should go see Anders. He'll know what to do." Clarissa said resolutely, getting on her feet and-

"No, no! Stop!" Bethany cried, grabbing Clarissa by the arm. "Sit down."

"But-" Clarissa was halfway out of the water, and should anyone have been sneaking a peek from the door, they would have caught quite the eye-opener.

"Yes, I'm enjoying the view very much, but please sit down. Nothing's happened to me yet. I've just been thinking."

Her words did little to reassure Clarissa, but she let herself slip back into the warm water, her gaze into her eyes unbroken all the while. This time, she slid over to Bethany's side of the bath.

"A silver for your thoughts?" Clarissa asked. She would've wormed around in her mind more, but truth be told, she would rather not relive the moments again.

"Am I that cheap to you?" Bethany returned, smiling at herself but then quickly gathering her thoughts to answer Clarissa's question.

"Do you remember what Anders said, when we told him about my… condition?" Bethany asked, sidling closer to Clarissa. In the tight confines of the wooden bathtub, it was no hard task.

"_The taint is more than a mark on your soul. It is also a death sentence. Over time, the Darkspawn will call to you, and you will hear the songs that beckon to them as your own. Most resist them. All of them will, one way or another, fail. That is the Calling – none escape it, and all will fall under the influence of the Darkspawn in due time, unless they take it upon themselves to end their lives by taking as much of the Tainted bastards with them."_

"I remember." Clarissa said. It was easy to forget worries such as the one Anders spoke of, so distant in the future. Over time, it fades from memory, but when it was recalled like it was now, the words come back together in unsurprising clarity.

"They say that Grey Wardens generally have thirty years or so until the Calling takes them." Bethany said, her voice cracking.

"Yes…" Clarissa said, seeing clearly now what her sister was mulling over, "but how is this even remotely related to _freckles_?"

"The markings of age, the proof of nature's toll on the person," Bethany said, fingers idly touching on the brownish-yellow spots on her face, "they make me feel old, Clare; Older than I used to be only five years ago."

"You _are _five years older." Clarissa pointed out. Was humour too out-of-place at that moment?

"But it feels so much longer than that…" Bethany said, groping for Clarissa's right hand under the calm bathwater and twining her fingers around Clarissa's. They fastened and held each other tight, between their bodies, barely submerged. Clarissa squeezed, feeling Bethany rest her head on her left shoulder.

"It's like this… _thing _inside me, robbing me of my life, taking my youth away from me. I feel it nestling deep within my soul, devouring me, eating away at me while I waste my time being a do-gooder? I'm not nobility. I never was, and never will be. Is this how I must spend the last twenty years of my life? Devoting myself to a city that is just a smidgen less than caring towards what I've given away for it?"

"Bethy… stop." Clarissa cooed, running her left hand along the wavy, jet-black tresses she loved sinking her fingers into, "you're rambling, like Merrill. You don't mean it that way."

She waited until she took a deep breath, calming her jilted nerves before continuing.

"You're not living your life for the city, and neither am I." Clarissa said, touching thumb and forefinger to Bethany's chin and bringing her up so that their eyes met.

"Every time I give to the poor, every time I argue with snot-nosed nobles who only care about themselves, a small part of me wants to look back and stare at you, just to see that smile on your face." Clarissa said.

"Every time we give of ourselves to help others, only to have them spit on our hands, the only thought that keeps me going is that you'll be proud of me."

She watched as tears crept into Bethany's eyes, making them twinkle and shimmer. She reached into her thoughts and brought their minds close to one another, the walls separating their minds melting into one another.

"And when you stood beside deathbeds, using your magic to mend wounds and sicknesses that would have otherwise been impossible to heal, I was amazed at how selfless you could be, how you could put so much of yourself on the line and ask for nothing in return."

She felt herself swell with pride, a golden gleam in her mind's eye, and she poured it into their joined thoughts. She brought their combined attention to it, basking in the wonderful warmth and light.

"Remember this," she said, "remember that I am proud of you. I am proud of you, and I love you."

Water spilled over onto the tiled floor below, but she didn't care; Bethany's fingers tightened painfully around her own, but she paid the feeling no mind. Inside the tangled web of their intertwined minds, the memories of the stone prison, lonely and foreboding, surfaced and assaulted them anew, but Clarissa did not shy away. Instead, she endured, she weathered the daunting visions and the fear coiled behind it, not letting it take control and drive a wedge between them. She smiled reassuringly, tipping Bethany's chin slightly.

_I won't abandon you again._

Her lips made their way to the brown, highlighted spots on Bethany's right cheek, pressing a single, loving kiss against each freckle she found. Bethany found them disfiguring; She found them lovely.

Her featherlike skims on Bethany's skin brought her closer and closer to her waiting lips, but she merely grazed them as she made her way across the other cheek, comforting Bethany as only a sibling could, loving her as only a lover could.

_It is what makes us special. _Clarissa thought, the notion astray from the powerful emotions she felt coursing through them both.

_It is why I love you too. _Bethany thought, smiling when Clarissa let go of her hand and cupped one hand under her chin, another behind her neck. There came a tender, fleeting moment, when violet-blue met honey brown with nothing else in between. To anyone else, it lasted but a fraction of a second; to them it was a moment that was infinite.

Then she kissed her, slowly but fully, their lips moving in tandem as only lovers intimately linked were capable of doing. She kissed her, long and deep, until the horrifying visions from years past faded to black.


	8. Masks

Marion Delauncet scowled.

It was not her first time in the damp darkness of Lowtown. Her climb to the pivotal position she currently held in Kirkwall could not have been possible without associating herself with the less favourable elements of the city which resided here. There were bribes to be placed, institutions to be brought down and individuals to be removed. She was not afraid of getting her hands dirty, but she held a particular dislike for the occasions when the phrase was interpreted literally.

It was a necessary process, but it did not strike her as an enjoyable one.

"It's not like those hornheads to be late." Damien Delauncet, Marion's brother-in-law, muttered. He had a heavy Orlesian accent that did not fit at all with his deep, hoarse voice. Just by listening to him speak, Marion would have pictured him exactly as he was: a witless, brutish exaggeration of masculinity topped off by having less brains than an ogre. Her voice was much more cultured, with a side of elegance that could, if necessary, lean into seductiveness. It was only fair, of course. She had spent years perfecting her speech, finding the balance between that coquettish hint of Orlesian and the commonplace, almost vulgar tongue Free Marchers spoke.

She'd only brought him along in case the negotiations took a downward plunge, which was highly unlikely. With the gargantuan greatsword he, for some unexplained reason, carried around on his back and his inhuman, almost Qunari bulk, he served as a deterrent for when things got out of hand.

_I doubt he'd be able to find his way home if only I just left him here. He'd probably wind up at the docks. _The Orlesian noblewoman thought, shifting her stance so that she could feel the reassuring nudge of the leather sheath against her thigh. Damien was as much family as a pet dog on a leash – she would have to keep him reined in, lest he break free and bark too loudly. It was all he could do anyway. How can a single human best even one of them in single combat?

_They won't try anything. Not when the wheels in this city are starting to turn against them. Juggernauts they may be, but even juggernauts cannot clash against the Templar Order and their subordinate City Guard and live._

She called an abrupt halt to her wandering thoughts as the sound of soft, pattering footsteps, ill-fit of the shadow cast by the lone torch in the Lowtown marketplace, increased in volume. From what she could tell, it came from the direction of the wide staircase leading up from the docks.

_It has to be him. _Marion thought.

She forced her mind, suddenly frenzied with activity and needless anxiety, to calm as the giant, horned spectre imposed itself on the sandstone wall.

She could have sworn she saw a pair of glowing red eyes materialising from the ill-formed shadow, burning a hole through her skull with unnatural intensity.

_Calm yourself, Marion._

She brushed an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear, blinking hard to force herself to focus. A small part of her hoped Damien would come forward, offering however little support he could. Could he not see the distress gnawing at her, pushing her, compelling her to scream?

_You're grasping at straws, Marion._

She forced herself to become emotionless, to become cold, cruel and cunning, like the woman she had been for the past twenty years.

_That's why he can't see you._

Marion Delauncet smiled a greeting as the Arishok, flanked by two of his honour guards, stepped into the dark alley. Their collective bulk blocked out most of the light from the torch and, to Marion's eyes, the three Qunari were nothing but a mass of shadows and the occasional splotch of grey skin. A halo of light surrounded them, flickering and shimmering. It gave them an appearance only slightly less frightening than demons.

"Serah Delauncet," the Arishok intoned. His voice, no matter how many times she'd heard it before, still managed to send chills down her spine.

_He actually got it right._

"Arishok."

"I see you remain wary of us," he said, stoic eyes looking past her at Damien.

_Let me do the talking._

The thought came unbidden as she frantically stopped herself from uttering the words aloud. Damien did not know her, but she knew him well enough. Every time he opened his mouth, the events that followed almost always ended in stupidity, bloodshed or both. She seized the moment quickly, relieved when Damien made no move to answer. Perhaps the cold, uncaring façade he was putting on would work out for them after all.

"It never hurts to be prepared." Marion replied, smiling knowingly. She knew the Qunari had little time to spare with pleasantries, being the pragmatic people that they were.

_Keep your words short, simple and concise._

"Indeed. I believe our arrangements are proceeding well?" the Arishok asked.

"Yes. The Templars are a secluded bunch. When the time comes, misdirecting them would be an easy task." Marion answered, shifting her gaze as she sorted with the whirlwind of memories and thoughts that surfaced when she uttered the word.

_You're only moving the Templars, Marion, not the mages. They won't be harmed._

He _won't be harmed._

"And the City Guard?" the Arishok asked.

"The Guard-Captain is used to having her own way, and relies on locals to plan her deployments. I have my men in place to lead them into traps, so that you may draw on their authority if necessary." Marion replied. She had thought up the latter half of the statement off the top of her head. The people of Kirkwall would not respond well to outsiders ordering them about. Having the City Guard intact and under their control would smoothen the transition, illusion or not.

"Good."

"And what of your end of the bargain?" Marion asked.

_Be aggressive._

_ Shut up. _Marion snapped at herself, fighting to maintain control. Her hands began to quiver, and she casually hid them behind her back, hoping her counterpart would not sense the fear growing within her. She tried hard to refrain from entertaining the notion that the broad-shouldered Qunari could cut her in half in the blink of an eye, without so much as a grunt.

"We will honour our end of the agreement," the Arishok said. There was no conviction behind his words, and Marion saw no point in pursuing the subject, lest he decide upon her distrust as an act of betrayal.

Damien, however, was far less keen on taking the Qunari on their word.

"And our heads go on the guillotine while you make empty promises. I do hope you're not taking us humans for fools, Qunari," he spat. Clearly, he had expected some form of down payment, an instant reward to the commitment his family has shown. Had he spoken of it sooner, Marion would have slapped the notion out of his head, but it was too late.

The guards flanking the Arishok bristled at his accusation, their large, calloused hands reaching for the spears on their backs.

_Damn it! _Marion twisted her head, glaring at Damien. The dimwit just couldn't keep his mouth shut. She didn't have to look to know that he was going for his greatsword as well.

The Arishok raised his eyebrows, murmuring a phrase in Qunari that made his guards back down.

"You have our word, human. That will be enough for you," he said simply. He wasn't in the mood to haggle – the slight grumble in his voice gave that away. But she couldn't afford to show weakness now, not after Damien's sudden outburst.

"We need your help just as much as you need ours, Arishok. We will expect the terms on both sides to be satisfied." Marion said, muscles tensing. She felt adrenaline rushing through her veins, removing doubt and extinguishing fear. This was politics. This was diplomacy.

This was her playground.

"You will do well by reconsidering your assumptions, human." The Arishok said, monotonous and impassive. The words, however plain in their delivery, seethed of a not-so-idle threat.

"Will I? Do you expect the people of Kirkwall, noble or peasant, to lay down their fortunes, their families, their way of life just because you held a sword to their necks? Your _Qun_ cannot be enforced on a conquered city overnight. Resistances will form, rebellions will rise, and if there's anything that can unite a city, it is a common enemy," Marion said, playing the cards she had been dealt in her own spectacular fashion. She had not squandered the years she spent mingling with businessmen, nobles and the ruling elite.

She watched.

She listened.

She learned.

She _perfected._

The Arishok was silent for a long while. Marion wondered if she had pushed too far.

_Don't second-guess yourself._

"You raise a fair point, Serah _Delauncet._" The Arishok intoned, running her name around in his mouth as if he'd taken a sudden interest in it. "We will keep it in mind when the time comes."

Marion smiled. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"Always a pleasure, Arishok." Marion said. She did not extend her hand.

"It has been… an amusing experience," the Arishok said, the faintest traces of a smile, under the cover of darkness, tugged at his lips.

"How so?" Marion asked.

"This agreement serves to prove my point on your society and its flaw: No one is complacent. No one knows their place in the world, and most go to strange lengths to rise beyond themselves," the Arishok said, a derisive edge to his voice.

"And what does this point show you?" Marion said, half expecting a recital of the Qun.

"It shows me that this city is beyond saving." The Arishok said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Then he turned and left.

"Damned hornheads," observed Damien. As it turned out, he was worse than useless.

"Next time, try to keep your sentiments to yourself." Marion snapped, feeling a sudden urge to take her dagger and slit the worthless, dumb bastard's throat. The least he could do was be her punching bag.

"Well," Damien grunted, putting a hand on Marion's shoulder, "the Viscount's seat will soon be ours, sister."

She had to fight the compunction to lop his hand off.

_And the first thing I'll do when get there will be throwing you into the Gallows._

She paused, appalled by the venom in her thoughts. How did she become this? Why was she so… heartless? So… cruel?

The questions burned in her mind until she was back in her mansion, safely locked behind her bedroom door. Her husband was out again. Off in a tryst with some Lowtown whore, no doubt. She pulled the hairpin from the bun she had tied neatly behind her head, letting her blonde curls tumble down to her shoulders.

She examined herself in front of a full-body mirror, the mirror she had bought to remind herself who she really was. She tore away the dark-red blouse. She took off the silk stockings. She washed away the powder on her face with running tears.

And then she was that girl again – that street-smart, penniless urchin whoring herself out in some forgotten corner of Val Royeaux. Her hair was tangled, tousled, as they most often were when men grabbed at them roughly during the throes of climax; her face was freckled and marked, tattooed by slumming lords and ladies for her status; her body was frail, battered and abused, teetering on the edge of falling apart.

Until she found him.

_Until you found me._

He had been her mark, her target in marrying into a rich household, in casting off the chains of poverty and survival that have kept her subdued for so long. He had taken an immediate liking to her, and had given her a home, a life, and a love she never thought she could embrace.

She had been his target as well.

Desmond Delauncet had been sent to the Orlesian Circle at a young age, under the auspices of an orphan the noble family had picked up. After learning all he had to learn from them, he destroyed his phylactery and went on the run, looking to seek refuge from the Templars by rejoining his family. But the Delauncet name was not enough to shield him, and he had wandered the slums of Val Royeaux, planning his escape.

Planning, that was, until he saw her in a secluded corner of the magnificent Orlesian city, diminishing herself through trades in flesh.

Con artist and apostate.

The former saw a life-long meal ticket, and the latter saw the perfect cover.

At the start, it was all pretense for her. She'd married into a noble family! Who cared if the man was an abusive drunkard who liked men?

For Desmond Delauncet it was, to some degree, a trick as well. But it was those slight slips of affection, those intimate moments they shared to complete the act that, in reality, brought them closer and closer together until they found it too difficult to separate.

_The most convincing act is a real one._

Her handler had taught her that, to control her emotions and let them run true when she needed them to, only to have them recede deep within herself when it became unnecessary.

For this act, however, she had no desire to hold back, no need to retreat.

They had moved to the Free Marches to escape their pasts and, for a while, it had worked. The Delauncets, relative newcomers to Kirkwallian politics, had kept mostly to themselves.

Until they came for him.

Somehow, the Templar Order had discovered the identity of her husband, and had come looking for him on an unsuspecting night.

She had panicked, twisting in their bed and gasping for her husband to run.

But he wasn't there.

Indeed, they had only found him a week later, making his way along the Wounded Coast. They had hauled him back to the Gallows, and refused visits to a distraught Marion.

But she refused to give up.

She rode through the pain, using the agony she had endured as a child and the agony she endured then to harden herself. She remarried, showing the world that she had mercilessly, heartlessly, moved on.

_Except for that which I hide deep, deep inside._

She trained herself to be opportunistic, to be perpetually aware of anything and everything and to eradicate those who would mean her or her name harm. She dove into the dark, sinister world of politics and, like a fish in water, she excelled.

Then along came the Hawkes, all self-righteous and philanthropic. The younger one, Bethany, was an apostate, and they leave her alone, just because she's a Grey Warden?

_While my Desmond, who never did and never will do anyone any harm, rots in a cell and gets treated like a wild beast?_

_ No._

Marion Delauncet stared knowingly, triumphantly at her reflection. She saw a woman – a shrewd, resourceful, ambitious woman who has stopped and would stop at nothing to achieve her ends.

The wheels of change have been set in motion. The Viscount's seat will be hers, and when it is, not even the Knight-Commander can stop her.

_My love shall be free._


	9. Mirroring Blades

/Hey everyone!

I've noticed somewhat of a decrease in... well, pretty much everything. I'm wondering if that's because my quality has diminished without me knowing, or if I'm going too all-over-the-place with the storyline. It would mean the world to me if you could tell me what your thoughts were on this chapter and the previous chapters. If you liked it, drop me a review? If you didn't like it, drop me a review as well? If you want something more, drop me a review/request and I'll do my best to fill that out!

Without further ado, welcome Fenris back to the stage!/

Fenris was only slightly annoyed at the stares directed at him. If push came to shove and one of them actually musters the courage to do something more than just glaring at him, he could always put a punch clean through them.

In through the front, out through the back.

Clean and simple.

But then again, a public killing in Hightown wouldn't exactly go over well with the City Guard. He'd have to go on the run again.

_Shame, _he thought quietly to himself.

As he made his way across the square, an attractive noblewoman crossed his path. Her alabaster skin and high cheekbones labelled her distinctly as Orlesian, but the light, utilitarian fashion in which she clothed herself struck Fenris as a practical Orlesian, which was a contradiction in and of itself. The lords and ladies from the west of Thedas tend to put appearance and extravagant fashion over… well, everything, but it was curiously not the case with her. The dusky yellow hunting frock fell loosely around her delicate frame, and the simplicity of it was less than fetching.

And yet, he found himself drawn in by this dilemma of a woman – Orlesian, to be fair - unwittingly stopping in his tracks, transfixed by her plain beauty. The noblewoman, for her part, took the halt in his stride as an act of courtesy from a rare gentleman. She was polite enough to not let her stare linger on Fenris's questionable choice of attire, and favoured him with an appreciative smile before going on her way.

He couldn't help but smile back, inclining his head and slipping into the role she had projected on him.

_I need to get out more_.

Perhaps not all the lords and ladies were crook-nosed hypocrites after all.

His thoughts lingered on the woman as he came upon the heavy oak door, shielded by a stone arch with bits of greenery grown over it. Strange clanging noises came from behind the doors of the estate, and he allowed himself a few moments of contemplation before he knocked.

A jovial-looking dwarf about the width of the door came to answer. He wore a welcoming smile, but his eyes were scrutinising and guarded.

"Can I help you, serah?" the dwarf asked, his tone polite and frank. From the way he dressed, Fenris identified him as the steward, or at least the butler, of the estate.

"I'm looking for Hawke." Fenris said. Was that how they called her? Hawke? Or was she so far up the social ladder that it's _Lady _Hawke now? Maker, he needed to include gossip on his weekly groceries trip. It's been too long since that rainy night five years ago.

But then again, he wouldn't be knocking on her door if it hadn't been so long.

"She's somewhat... occupied right now, but you're welcome to wait inside, ser. My name is Bodahn Feddic, and I am Lady Hawke's manservant." the dwarf opened the door wide and stepped sideways, surprisingly hospitable towards a tattooed, rugged elf claiming acquaintance with his mistress.

An awkward moment came when elf and dwarf passed through the narrow entryway, with Bodahn habitually stopping to give guests time to shrug coats off and dispense with sun hats, and Fenris waiting, perplexed, behind him. It took Bodahn some moments to notice the lack of movement behind him.

"Ah, pardon me, ser," he smiled apologetically, continuing past the rows of hangers and cabinets with renewed urgency. Fenris wordlessly followed, his mind indecisive between amusement and annoyance.

His petty debate was swept away, however, as he stepped from the cramped, dusty entryway into the spacious, spotless grandeur of the Hawke estate.

_It _has _been too long._

His eyes picked up where his mind left off, finding it incredibly difficult to focus themselves on one, single thing when every single thing vied for his attention, from the glittering, reflective chandelier high above, an inverted spire of eye-catching brilliance, to the array of commissioned paintings mounted on the polished marble walls, a simple showing of the simple, but meaningful lives the Hawkes have led for the past half-decade. Yet for all its space, as it dwarfed Fenris's own main hall, the main hall of the Hawke estate retained a cosy comfort that made its guests feel right at home; Fenris credited the small, neat writing table under the far stairs and the bricked fireplace at his right: The two mundane and homely items, for him, created the impression of a well-off but tight-knit family and gave the cavernous hall an odd but welcome feeling of being grounded.

As if the estate was eager to confound Fenris even more, the clanging sounds that he'd been hearing in the background came to the fore. It had a resonant, metallic accent, an accent Fenris frequently associated with metal clashing against metal.

Or, to put it simply, swordplay.

"Where _is _Lady Hawke, if I may ask?" Fenris queried, raising his voice so Bodahn could hear, as he had wordlessly gone into the kitchen to fetch refreshments.

"She's just a little busy at the moment. I'm sure she won't be long!" Bodahn's voice, tinged with infectious optimism, echoed across the hall.

But Fenris was already edging towards a door set beside the fireplace, where he was now certain the sounds of blade against sword were coming from.

"Ser, it's not safe out there!" Bodahn, a split second too late in catching the curious elf, hastily cautioned.

The door opened to a sunny courtyard flanked by wooden benches, vine-draped pillars arranging themselves along a smooth, square-tiled patch of sunlight, supporting a roof that seemed to encroach upon the little sun-lit grove. A padlocked door lay at the far end, guarded by a ferocious-looking but adorably snoring Mabari war hound. All in all, it would have been quite the uneventful nook in the estate.

If it weren't for the sight of a pair of athletic, equally matched women battering at each other, the sounds of hard, unrelenting blows given and received and the tense but incredibly free sensation in the air, telling of a dynamic and intense spar.

Fenris smiled to himself, leaning against a nearby pillar. He had come here with a purpose, but he wasn't about to turn down free entertainment. From his point of view, he could see every move by both swordswoman and battlemage, every bead of sweat lining the sisters' cheeks and every crease on their inexpensive, utilitarian leather armour as their practice weapons, not at all different than the batches and piles delivered to the City Guard on a regular basis, met high, low and every which way.

His honed mind soon looked past the apparently seamless series of blows, counterblows, dodges, blocks and pivots and dissected how Clarissa and Bethany fought. Unlike in real combat, where one would often rely on raw strength to poke holes in their opponents' defence, the sisters' blows, from both longsword and staff, were clearly focused on technical mastery than brute, overpowering force.

He looked on, fascinated, as Clarissa slipped from a variant of greatsword wielding, which involved minimal displacement of the body itself and relied more on the length of the blade to attack and defend, into a flurry of mixed one-handed forms that, when mastered, was lightning-fast on the offense, impenetrable in its defence and thoroughly unpredictable in its movements.

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile on Bethany's face as she, forced to adapt to Clarissa's change in tack, retreated for several steps, only to regain her footing once more as she spun her staff gracefully, now utilising both ends of the iron-tipped birchwood in harrying Clarissa and deflecting her blows.

_Action and reaction, _Fenris thought appreciatively as Clarissa twisted round, catching Bethany's staff with a backhand swipe of her sword and a gleeful exclamation. She spun back around, her sword moving of its own volition and intercepting Bethany's follow-up strike on the opposite side. Her auburn hair seemed to catch fire under the sun's rays, and Fenris lingered on the hypnotic sight for a moment too many, his mind becoming awash with old thoughts and fantasies.

_You may have doused the fire with what you said, but it never died out. _He thought, snapping at himself for his lack of self-control.

He felt something tug at his mouth when he saw Clarissa inching into Bethany, her sword pinning her staff down and her violet-blue eyes sparkling with mischievous joy as she leaned in. The distance between them shortened to a hairbreadth, then vanished as Bethany stepped forward and Clarissa stepped back, the sudden movement making their foreheads touch and their figures snap straight as if in choreographed dance.

_Add in an accompaniment of minstrels and bards, and the spar might as well be an Orlesian ballet. _Fenris mused, old dilemmas resurfacing. Bethany's command of magic unnerved him, and Clarissa's confidence in her even more so. There has always been a certain… chemistry between them. He had seen it long ago; he just didn't acknowledge it. Or did he not _want _to acknowledge it, because it would have ruined his chances?

_The things men do for love. _He chuckled to himself, the courtyard and its occupants fading out of view and focus as he laughed, silently, at his stupidity. _I guess the young, stubborn fool never goes away, no matter how much you've hurt and how much you've survived._

_ And you hurt people when you're hurt, Fenris. You lash out at them and wound them and step on them when they're down._

He shook his head, closing his eyes.

In his self-absorbent dwelling, he failed to notice a straw basket stabbed full of swords, staffs and a variety of weapons, resting against a pillar; he also failed to recognise the dance-like steps of the Hawke sisters as a successful attempt in crossing over to said basket.

The high-pitched screech of metal skidding on stone surprised Fenris, and his bare foot stamped on the top of a glittering, man-sized crucifix just before it passed him by. Replacing foot with hand, he retrieved the grey iron greatsword from where it lay, casting a questioning glance at Clarissa and Bethany as he did so.

The pair of women seemed deep in whispered conversation, the distance between them remaining non-existent as they spoke in an undertone. He caught a slight nod and a smile from Bethany before she broke the connection and turned round, disappearing behind one of the side pillars.

He felt a surge of conflicting emotions as Clarissa turned towards him, violet-blue eyes sparkling with amusement and anticipation. Saw you all along, the eyes seemed to say, and Fenris would have treated her words as playful banter, if he only had not recalled the stormy night five years ago.

He had shut her out when she needed him as something he did not want to be.

He had salted her wounds, making her hurt without a hint of remorse.

She would not have forgiven him. She couldn't have. He wouldn't.

She glanced at the sword in his hand, motioning with her own.

_She means to duel me,_ he thought, _for what? Punishment? Vengeance?_

He could not see past the determinate fire in her eyes, nor could he pierce the casual smile on her lips. He had never felt more doubtful than this moment.

But he was not one to shy from a challenge.

He stepped forward, reluctant and suspicious, the unfamiliar feel of his temporary weapon adding to the turmoil in his mind.

Clarissa pranced forward, darting under his guard and disarming him in a set of fluid strokes. The touch of cold steel on his neck was, unfortunately, insufficient to dispel the doubts from his mind, although it did give him quite the jolt.

"The sheltered life of nobility too much for you, Fenris?" Clarissa asked, giddy mirth in her voice. To Fenris, it seemed fake and insulting. Doubt simmered into rage.

"_Not at all_," he ground out, stepping backwards and readying himself. His ego burned, his heart raced and his grip on his greatsword tightened. He thought he saw the aqua-blue veins on his arms pulse at the indignity.

He saw her eyebrows arch, a teasing smile on her lips.

He charged.

Just as she expected.

She dropped to one knee as he swung at her midsection, the rage-induced premonition of his sword, dull and blunt as it may have been, cutting through her stomach too powerful to ignore. He wheeled around, the momentum behind his steps taking him farther than he intended, and there she was, congenial and relaxed with her lightning-fast strikes and parries. Left and right her attacks went, forcing Fenris to adhere to her crackling pace until one hard push of her blade wrenched his blade from his hands, which have been expecting the blow to come from the opposite side.

He growled, not inaudibly, as Clarissa smiled and shrugged, not even bothering to touch her sword on his neck. Her condescending demeanour set his blood on fire. His brows furrowed with hate, and his free hand crumpled into a white-knuckled fist.

_Away with the falsehoods and pretenses, fight me like you mean it! _Fenris shouted with his thoughts.

"Fenris," Clarissa said, "fight with your head, not your heart! I do miss the calm look on your face when you sliced through people without batting an eye."

_And she dares lecturing me! _

"Enough with your games, Hawke! Stop taunting me with your false smiles! You've had your fun. I've had enough of mine." Fenris spat out, fury colouring every word a fiery, bloody red. His fists clenched, the tattoos on his skin glowing as anger coursed through him.

Clarissa actually frowned at that. He had expected her smile to widen even more as her torment came to fruition. He would have charged at her again and again until his rage was spent, had she not disarmed him with a smile on her face.

"Well… you say the sweetest things, don't you?" Clarissa said, somewhat startled by his reaction. "Did I do something? I didn't sign over some deed that would buy out your mansion, did I? Maker, I hope not."

"Don't play coy." Fenris hissed, glaring at the perplexed noblewoman. Her head tilted to one side, as if she was listening to someone. She frowned for a moment, then returned her gaze to Fenris, who was just about ready to storm out of the beautiful, sunny courtyard. He didn't realise he could hate beautiful, sunny courtyards that much.

"Is this about that falling-out five years ago? When I spilled my guts and you… didn't like what you saw?" Clarissa asked, the confusion in her voice replaced by a cherry-red blush on her cheeks. "Fenris… I…"

"You never got over how I spoke my mind? And when I knock on your door, five long years after, you think it the perfect opportunity to get back at me?" Fenris demanded, spelling out her case for her.

"Get back at you?" Clarissa scoffed, running a gloved hand through her hair. "Fenris, if I had wanted any sort of revenge, I would have thought up something far more childish and hilarious than this.

"Besides, why would I hold a grudge? Should I have held one? Damn, I must have missed out," she said, shrugging.

Bethany, playing the role of a mediating mother-figure, rose from her bench and gave Clarissa a light nudge.

"Enough with the jokes, Clare. I think he's serious," she said, smiling apologetically at Fenris. For some reason, he found the smile genuine. His anger diminished, but did not go away without a fight.

"Clarissa told me what you said to her that night, Fenris, and you were totally right. I knew it when she told me, and she knew it too." Bethany continued, staying at Clarissa's side.

"I've had lectures before, you know- Ow!" Clarissa chimed in and got a rather audible slap on the back of her hand for her trouble, "I was getting to my point!"

She turned back towards Fenris, smiling sheepishly as Bethany made a face of mock pity.

"I needed that lecture, Fenris. You actually helped me see how possessive and selfish I was when you let your maternal instincts take over. Why, I never even got the chance to thank you for it, what with you revelling in having the mansion all to yourself!" she said, the light-hearted happiness in her voice proving somewhat obstinate.

Fenris was silent for a long while. Her mirth was… disarming. It made him wonder if he had really taken her teasing the wrong way. Was he overreacting? Was _he _the oneholding the grudge? Had he made a fool out of himself, again?

_Self-doubt, you can be very confusing at times. And annoying, too. _Fenris thought, the awkwardness of his tantrum finally hitting him. He ran a hand through his hair, shrugging.

"Then how did you trick me into losing?" he asked. He was genuinely curious. Had Bethany aided her in some arcane, imperceptible way?

"_Trick _you?" Clarissa laughed aloud at the word, "Fenris, if I had to trick you to win, I wouldn't have survived all that Darkspawn and all the misanthropes we've met back in the day, now would I?"

"You _were _quite fast, to be frank." _And unpredictable, cunning and decisive._

"It was just a game, Fenris! I was giving you hints all the while, but you were too hellbent on giving me welts and bruises to heed them!" Clarissa cried, her hands flailing about.

"It _was _a spar, if I'm not mistaken." Fenris noted.

"You weren't, but who said spars can't be fun? I hint at where I'm going to hit; you match me, bait me in; I fall for it and dart back just in time… it goes on!" Clarissa said, sounding more like a child describing her favourite game than a noblewoman with a sword in hand.

"We've practically gotten it down to an art form," Bethany said, smiling at Clarissa, "just like dancing."

_Her attacks, feather-light but lightning-fast, were hints?_

"I've got you hooked, haven't I? You have the exact same look as Aveline had when I let her in on the secret." Clarissa said, "maybe you can spar Bethany this time. I saw you staring and I, being the courteous lady that I am, am willing to share."

_Was I that obvious? Damn it, Fenris. _He thought, more amused than embarrassed.

"Wait till we take this upstairs," Bethany whispered audibly, eliciting a blur of motion that had Clarissa's arms cinching her left arm.

"You wouldn't dare!"

Fenris smiled, his flourish signalling his readiness. He was lucky he didn't commit on his foolish endeavour all those years ago – they certainly made a great couple.

"So what really brought you here, in the stifling heat of noon?" Bethany asked as she gave her staff a few balancing twirls, Clarissa taking her cue and backing way off.

Fenris contemplated telling them.

_And put off a most challenging fight? _He thought.

_Maybe later._

"I came for business, but I suppose I could stay for a dance," he said, a suave lilt on his voice.

He took one step forward, and he saw Bethany doing the same, only she was smiling brightly. He couldn't help it, but his lips curled upwards as well.

/See you soon!/


	10. Dissolution

/Thanks for everyone and their support! It's every email that pops up in my inbox every morning that keeps me writing, I kid you not :D

Huge kudos going to Sy Itha for her advice on polishing my writing. I've tried to follow her advice with this chapter. Let me know if you see any changes and if you like them! Go check her out too. She's way better than I am :D u/1186010/

Spike: And Anders you shall... probably get. In time. I'm going to dangle it in front of you like a carrot. Don't be offended.

Bebus: Ah, shaming anyone was never the intention! Thank you very much as well! When I saw you write 'build-up', I literally fist-pumped. Somebody does know what I'm doing!

And for everyone else who's dropped a favourite, a follow or any other form of support: Thank you! I think I've said thanks far too many times now.

Enjoy!/

Naturally, perhaps inevitably, one dance turned into a dozen.

Fenris stabbed the tip of his greatsword into the ground, leaning on the rounded hilt. He gasped, gulping down breath after mouthful breath, hoping the intake of air would soothe the burning sensation in his muscles. Out of the corner of his downcast eyes, he saw Bethany's practice staff resting against one pillar while the battlemage herself slumped against another, her eyes wandering the cloudless summer sky as her chest rose and fell much like his own.

"Maker, that… that was…" A panting, wheezing voice brought his focus to the elder of the Hawke sisters, who, instead of searching the sky, elected to look between a pair of grey, unassuming tiles. From the sight of her doubling over, however, the tiles were either innocent or very crafty in their deception.

_Crafty tiles, Fenris? _He asked himself. He would have laughed had his throat given him permission.

"Enough exercise for a week?" Bethany asked.

"You're not… getting off that easy…" Clarissa answered. She managed to look over to Bethany, her laboured breathing calming for some reason as she favoured her with a knowing smile and a wink.

Bethany caught the salacious look in her eye, and she laughed breathlessly until her throat coughed in protest.

_Breathlessness fuels exhibitionism, I suppose. _Fenris thought, wordlessly spectating the silent exchange. In the last few hours, he had laid every ounce of strength in his body on the line, dancing from blade to blade. His muscles burned from their prolonged exertion, his bones felt leaden, but his mind was strangely energetic.

He was half-dead, but he felt more alive than he ever did, and he thought he knew why.

Sparring for the Hawke sisters was more mind games than physical contest, and Fenris found himself constantly on his toes and thinking on his feet, judging by instinct and memory where the next blow was coming from.

He was glad Bethany had been first to coach him in their variant of sparring, for she had the patience and forbearance to let him slowly adapt.

Clarissa, suffice to say, lacked those qualities.

The flame-haired woman had charged at him without warning, the pre-emptive strike setting a breakneck pace. It had taken his undivided attention to keep up with her attacks, and he had to improvise and go beyond his limits when she began feinting them – She would have been swinging at his left arm when her sword withdrew with startling alacrity, stabbing at his chest instead. His heightened reflexes had saved him with a sidestep, but she did not allow his saving grace to recede. With a easy smile on her face, she honed his thoughts to a razor-sharp point as she forced him to separate truth from lie, hints from tricks, all while matching her in speed and ferocity.

But match her he did.

After a number of hackle-raising moments and close calls, he, extraordinarily, settled into her pace, anticipated her giving him the slip and matched her blow-for-blow.

He even matched her smile with his own as he, at long last, danced with her.

_Not quite how I imagined it, but it'll do. _Fenris thought, reliving his movements and hers, imagining her pressing against him and remembering when she smiled at him.

He couldn't help but steal another glance at her, now invested in hushed conversation with Bethany. Exhaustion was nowhere to be found in them, and they breathed slowly and steadily, their eyes never breaking contact.

_She already has someone else. _He thought bitterly, averting his eyes.

He tried hard, but had never found it in himself to be truly happy for her. He knew that they had gone through thick and thin and life and death to be together, and he knew that the bond between them was something he could never match.

So he stayed silent. He applauded them, but only deep within his heart; he envied them, only to push the thought away the second it surfaced.

He breathed long and hard to clear his head, feeling his body come down from the heightened state it had been in. He frowned. The air felt charged with energy, as if saturated with an unknown magic. He glanced at the back of his hand, his puzzlement growing when he saw his dormant tattoos. The lyrium embedded in his skin would have alerted him to any use of magic, as was its intended purpose when Danarius branded him so.

He clamped his eyes shut at once, trying to rid himself of the memories he had conjured.

It was too late.

_Magic spreading like wildfire in his body._

_Magic binding him, ice-cold shackles at his wrists and feet._

_Magic breaking him as it forced itself on him, marking him as its property._

_Magic cursing him, warping him, marking him._

_Magic turning him into a monster._

"_Remember, this is what you asked for," his voice, normally cold and condescending, contained a sinister pride._

He remembered his answer all too well, but it only confounded him all the more.

"_Yes." He replied resolutely. There was no hesitation in his voice._

Fenris felt his fists clench of their own accord. He struggled not to groan as the memories, blurred and incomplete as they were, visited fresh and familiar agony on him.

_Why?_

The question behind the singular, simple word plagued him more than all else, blotting everything out each time it surfaced in his mind. He wanted to answer it, but he could not remember; he wanted to forget it, but it would not let him go.

Laughter reached his ears, and he looked up to find Clarissa tossing a wet rag at her sister, who caught the dripping cloth with the tips of her fingers and handing it to their dwarven manservant. He lingered on the helpless expression on the diminutive yet stout man's face as Bethany chastised him playfully, the movements of her mouth silent to him. The charge in the air intensified and he realised, at long last, its nature and its source.

It was happiness. Pure, unadulterated and simplistic.

In the aftermath of the intense spar, Fenris had forgotten, for just a moment, the troubles and sorrows that he had always known. He had basked in the warmth of contention on his skin, breathed in the serenity colouring the air and immersed himself in the emotion he had distanced himself from, all while blissfully ignorant of the peace he had given himself.

But it was not to last.

Fate, it would seem, deemed him unworthy of such a gift.

_You just had to look down, Fenris. Why?_

And there it was. That word again. That single, simple word that refused to leave him alone.

A peal of hearty laughter came from far away, trying but failing to reel him back into the sisters' mindless revelry. He tried to grab hold of the sound, to remember the times when he too had laughed with such abandon.

He found none. None that he could remember.

The golden rays of dusk faded before his vision, taking with it moss-coated pillars, square-tiled floors and the infectious warmth in the air as he retreated deep within himself, a gaping chasm of impenetrable darkness opening up before his bare feet. It was a darkness he knew well, but never fully understood, for the key to unravelling it lay in his memories, deep in his mind.

And his mind was the one place he feared, truly _feared_, to tread.

_Run, _a voice whispered, soft and sad. It was a voice he knew well, for he had heard it time and again, telling him to run when all he wanted to do was to remember.

"_Who are you?" _he asked, shades and fragments flashing past his eyes.

_Strands of gold._

_Emeralds gleaming in the dark._

_ Soft, delicate touches._

Then he heard her voice again, rising with a silent melody. He heard her sing to him, and the words called to him even though he had forgotten, long ago, what they meant.

He wanted to remember, for he knew it was just within reach. He felt it, he knew it and he believed it.

He wanted to forget, for every waking moment has become agony. He could share it with nobody, tell it to no one, for he knew the answers lay within and he had to know, one way or the other.

"Fenris?" he heard a woman call to him. Her voice was gentle, kind and smooth as velvet.

_Who are you?_

Fingers wrapped themselves round his arm and shook, but they weren't as he expected – they were broad, rough and had a leathery texture.

Fenris opened his eyes, blinking hard as he saw Bethany's hand on his arm, her puzzled brown eyes squinting from her seated position. He didn't even see her sit on the bench.

"Don't bother him, Bethy. The man needs his rest, after the thrashing we put him through." A lilting, teasing voice cut in. He managed a smile as Clarissa rested her head on Bethany's shoulder. Her violet-blue eyes glittered in the setting sun.

_Emeralds gleaming in the dark._

"Do you want a rematch?" Fenris asked gamely. He had to fight to maintain eye contact.

_I want to forget._

"And he lives!" Clarissa exclaimed.

"Not that we didn't enjoy having you, but we were wondering what brought you to us in the first place." Bethany said.

_What brought me to you? _Fenris thought, his thoughts still recovering from rummaging through his incomplete memories. He found it hard to push them aside as he fumbled for the answer in the dark, and he lapsed into silence once again.

"To confess your love for me, perhaps?" Clarissa suggested, smiling coquettishly. Her words, as careless and flirtatious as they might have been, were like a guiding light to Fenris's confusion. Did they see him struggle? Did they spot the pain in his eyes? Was he that transparent?

"Keep that up, and I might not be able to help myself." Fenris shot back just before the silence became awkward. Clarissa's smile compressed into a pout of mock pity, but Fenris thought he saw a tinge of relief flash past.

"Sorry, Fenris," she said, her tone teary and overtly apologetic, "but I'm off the market already."

"Not for sale anymore?" Fenris asked, pitching in to the casual, no-harm-done flirting the sisters enjoyed. He needed the distraction, even if the joke's being played on him. "What a pity."

Clarissa ran her eyes up and down, her gaze turning smoky and her eyebrows rising appreciatively.

"Depends on the price," she cooed.

Bethany hooked her arm around Clarissa's neck, which had been nestled on her right shoulder, and pulled her tight against her.

"That price is you going through me." Bethany warned, a cautionary finger up and wagging. A small wick of flame coalesced at her fingertip. He held his hands up.

"Not for sale it is, then," he said.

Bethany brought the finger to her lips and blew once, extinguishing the flame. It winked out obediently, and she smiled satisfactorily at him.

"Good," she said.

"We should really get down to business, dear sister. Mother will be coming round doing her dinner call, and I very much doubt you're in the mood to share." Clarissa said. Her observation earned her a swat on the arm.

"Be hospitable!" Bethany cried, turning her focus from Clarissa to Fenris mid-cry, "we'd be delighted to be your host for the evening."

"You sound like a bewitched Norah," Fenris said. Clarissa guffawed.

"I don't care. Get another drink or _get out_." Bethany demanded, dropping into full emulation.

"_Beth_any! Is that any way to talk to a guest?" A matronly, scolding voice came from the open door. Clarissa laughed out loud at the sound and Bethany blushed red as a ripe cherry.

A slighter, older but no less eye-catching Bethany stepped through the door, sporting a short head of silver-white hair. Her sharp grey eyes were on him in an instant, and she approached him quickly. Her strides were confident, even a little sprightly. They contradicted her weathered appearance.

"You must be… Fenris?" the woman queried politely. Fenris gave her a nod and a smile. How did she know his name?

"Leandra Hawke. Clarissa spoke of you," the woman said, picking up on his unspoken question.

_Not recently, considering long I've been gone. _Fenris thought, attributing Leandra's remembrance to good memory. The women of the Hawke household never ceased to amaze him. He took her offered hand. Her grip was firm.

"Dinner's about ready. Why don't you join us?" Leandra asked and, although he had been expecting it, the warm invitation incited a host of emotions within him, none of them malevolent. The light from beyond the door was warm and mellow; the rich aroma of roast made his stomach rumble, and the expectant looks on Clarissa, Bethany and Leandra's faces were inviting and welcoming.

It took him longer than he had hoped, but he eventually nodded.

"_Finally_," Clarissa practically sprang from the seat and slipped through the door faster than the eye could follow. Bethany quickly followed, but not before flashing him a wide smile that had him smiling back, unsure to whether follow or stay.

"Perhaps you'd like to get some of that dust off of you before you sit down? It must be very uncomfortable for you," Leandra said, handing him a warm towel. He accepted it gratefully, not wanting to know what had prompted her providence, hospitality or not.

"Take your time," Leandra said as she backed away into the dining hall, "the princesses will take much longer than you, I'm sure."

For some reason, that little comment left him grinning for a long while. It stuck to his face long after he settled into his seat.

And, Maker, was it a cramped seat.

As one of the richest noble families in Kirkwall, the Hawkes certainly knew how to choose their dining tables – not too ornate, not too plain; not too tall for dwarves, not too short for humans; not too extravagant in size, yet still accommodating for the entire household, Mabari warhound included. He was relieved Clarissa sat next to him, for she had edged closer to Bethany and, unintentionally, given him just enough room to hold his utensils properly.

Still, he had to suppress the urge to stretch his legs, or risk having his bare toes made a side dish by the man-sized Mabari directly across from him.

_He's probably too absorbed in the meat in his mouth to notice me. _Fenris thought, returning his attention to the generous portion of flame-grilled halla on his plate. _I know I would be._

He cut carefully, trying his hardest to not make a fool out of himself with the delicate tools in his hands. It took him some moments to adjust his grip on the knife and a few more to make the cut. Table manners were really not his forte.

"Take it easy, Fenris. Think of it as a greatsword sized down for a rat," Clarissa said, a plastered smile on her face.

There came a whiff of stifled laughter from around the table. The warhound perked his ears up and barked in encouragement, but it was Leandra who recovered first and excused her daughter.

"She makes the worst jokes sometimes. Some people call her 'charismatic'," she made a face, "I don't know _what_ goes on in their heads."

"Whose side are you on?" Clarissa exclaimed, a bewildered look in her eyes. Fenris fought to maintain a neutral expression as he pushed another neatly-cut morsel into his mouth, his memories of civilised dinners returning.

_He'd drilled it into me when he-_

_ No. Don't go there._

_ Don't spoil a perfect evening._

He looked up to find the Hawkes engaged in an animated debate on the appropriateness of humour at a dinner table, with Clarissa deferring to Bodahn for support and Bethany being caught between her sensible mother and her rallying sister. The warm candlelight flickered as conversation flowed past them, accompanied by the clattering of knife and fork, drifting in an air of musky spices and delectable aromas.

Fenris stretched his legs. The table no longer felt cramped, but close. He felt something melt within him, an icy blockade surrounding his heart and mind trickling away as the warmth of the night coaxed his defenses lower. He felt… safe, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. The Mabari probed at him with his paws and welcomed him with a playful yelp, jostling him and interrupting his thoughts.

He smiled at his intrusion and leaned over to scratch his ears.

"You're a lady! _Act _like one!" He heard Leandra yell. She sighed exasperatedly when Clarissa, head bowed in spasmodic laughter, ignored her. Bethany tossed her mother a helpless look, shrugging.

"They never grow up…" Leandra muttered to herself as she turned to Fenris with a mind to include her guest in their revelry.

"So what actually brought you to us, Fenris?" Leandra asked.

Fenris remained silent when Bethany coaxed an outburst of merriment from Clarissa by whispering in her ear.

_Dwarves._

_ Elves._

_ Cargo crates._

_ Abandoned houses._

He shrugged good-naturedly. Why bog an enjoyable evening down with business when the night is still young?

"It can wait," he said, then proceeded to lecture Clarissa on proper table manners.

Neither human, elf nor dwarf saw, heard nor smelled the carpet of green smoke, slithering in from beyond the front door.


	11. Slither

/Hello everyone!

I know it's been a while since I updated this story. No, I'm not dead, not yet. I've just had a lot more duties on my shoulders than to my liking. But when I came back to write, I found that I still loved it the way I did before.

Sorry for keeping you waiting for so long! A short one to break the drought, but I've been pouring a lot into this chapter over the past few months.

Enjoy!/

Clarissa leaned back and breathed in deeply, the pleasant buzz in her head mixing well with the warm, safe atmosphere of the dining hall. Faintly, she could hear Bodahn continuing the tales of his exploits, the liquor no doubt mellowing his deference and provoking what some would describe to be a servant speaking out of turn. Clarissa held no favour for such restraints – when you treat people well, they have a tendency to treat _you _well.

She would have paid more attention to the dwarf's retelling, had her mind not been worn down and dulled by warmth, comfort and nearly three whole decanters of wine.

_Fenris can handle himself, _she thought idly, sniffing at a peculiar scent in the air. That was odd – fragrances were only used when the household was entertaining formal guests. Friend as he was, Fenris was no stranger, and required no such formality. She did not even recognise the smell, for it was too strong for her liking.

She breathed in again, and gasped when an unfamiliar presence slithered over her feet. Bodahn's voice, and the laughter usually associated with it, faded. Had they felt it as well? She felt something grip her, twisting her insides, taking hold of her emotions and warping them.

She opened her eyes, and she beheld a vision that struck fear into the deepest, darkest corner of her mind.

_She saw a woman clad in gleaming silver armour, standing atop a gentle slope, looking out onto a barren landscape of trampled grass and bare trees. A chilling wind ripped into her, biting into her armour, but the woman held fast. Darkness closed in around her, but twin spectres of light on her arms kept the void at bay, burning the inky black clean with their brilliance. Her right hand was a cleansing, golden crucifix, casting rays of luminescence that rivalled the sun itself; her left hand simmered with a vengeful blue glow, twitching and quivering, as if it was a beast scarcely contained. Neither dark nor light gave ground, and time itself seemed to stop in its tracks, stunned into stillness by the eternal struggle between them._

_ The woman turned when another beckoned to her, her movement casting light on the other's jet-black tresses. The woman folded into her, trails of liquid diamond losing their gleam when the light left them. Her mouth moved, but none could perceive her words. The dead, broken world stood silent as the lovers embraced, their clutches speaking of deep reluctance and great sorrow. As they separated, the sun on the silver-clad woman's arm shone brighter with every heavy yet purposeful step she took from the woman at her back. At times, it seemed as if she would look back, but forbade herself from it._

_ An elegant arch stood at the edge of the slope, the surface between them a swirling, imperceptible plane of pure black even the silver-clad woman could not pierce. It was scarcely the height of a man, but was inscribed with curious runes _

_ She strode towards the arch, the black veil consuming her, only to spit her out the other side as if she'd passed through nothing at all._

_Then she fell to her knees, and all the light in the world faded to black._

Clarissa awoke to the feeling of her lungs screaming for air, her heart slamming into her chest with the force of a sledgehammer and her mind reeling from the horrifying vision she had just witnessed. An uncommon fear gripped her, twisting her insides and chilling her to the bone. It brought to bear a grim, dim memory of cold steel in her flesh – a shard of ice plunging into her stomach, twisting and writhing.

_Betrayal._

The word rang in her mind, pushing through the confusion and the fear to kindle an icy flame in her abdomen, growing by the second.

_It cuts deep, does it not?_

Even as her wild eyes registered the familiar flickerings of light from the chandelier high above her, her body shut out the warmth it offered and retreated deep within itself, fearing the green haze in the air and the moving shadows on the walls.

_Did you think we've forgotten you, Clarissa? _A voice as formless and hollow as the void itself whispered to her, its words slithering into her ears

She fought the urge to scream, every muscle in her body tensing as they clawed at her, flinching from the passes they made on her skin. Her vision began to pulse with every heartbeat, every pump through her veins as loud as war drums pounding beside her ears. She tried to back away, but the cold, unyielding stone at her back knocked the breath out of her. She slammed herself against the wall, grunting in pain when it did not budge.

She felt its touch on her shoulder, its claws sinking into her flesh. A whimper escaped from her sealed lips.

_"Don't fight it…" _It cooed, its tone deceptively gentle and soft, reminding her of a voice she once knew, but could no longer recall. The chill in her veins was too much; she could not fight herself and hope to win.

Something soft and fleshy smothered her front. She clamped her eyes shut; It was all she could do. The fight in her, along with the control of her limbs, had drained out of her long ago, spirited away by the cold.

She shivered even as she identified the noose tightening around her waist as a woman's arms, the faint pressure at her chest her body, and the tickling skims on her neck her breathing.

"It's all right, now, love," she whispered, her lips brushing against bare skin as she spoke. "I'm here now."

The sound of her voice started a war within Clarissa's mind, adding turmoil yet dousing fires at the same time. But she could not remember its owner. She could not see her face. Not yet. She felt her jet-black curls on her cheek and cherished what little comfort it gave her. She felt the chill in her limbs ebb away as she clung onto the woman, letting her fight the darkness for her.

The woman held her until her breathing calmed and her shivers ceased, then pulled away to look her in the eye.

"Bethany?" Clarissa croaked, finding her voice hoarse and strained. She felt every inch of her body echo her voice, and she had to fight to keep her eyes from drifting shut, for she knew not if she could wake again.

"I'm here, love." Bethany cradled her as a mother would her beloved child, her tight embrace and worried eyes rekindling the warmth in her. "Breathe freely. I have placed a ward over your lips against the poison in the air."

Clarissa blinked and fought back a gasp when her mind seized again. Bethany's eyes turned to a gleaming purple. Crooked horns sprouted from the sides of her head, matching the curve of the sly smile on her lips, and her fingers at her back felt ice-cold and stinging. She ground her teeth and fought back, and when she opened her eyes again, she beheld Bethany as she was.

"What did you see?" Bethany asked, a hand moving to the back of her head, stroking her hair. Clarissa froze, torn over telling her of her vision or not.

Clarissa shook her head. "Nothing. Just… nothing," she murmured.

Bethany frowned. "It was me, wasn't it? When I duelled you in Falconsreach?"

"Why do you say that?" Clarissa asked.

"Because that was what I saw." Bethany said, her eyes shimmering as she looked at her. "I'm sorry, Clarissa."

Clarissa marshalled her strength and lifted herself from Bethany's embrace, planting a long, chaste kiss on her cheek.

"I forgave you a long time ago."

A shadow fell over them. "Good. You're awake."

"Fenris. Are you all right?" Clarissa asked, looking up at the silver-haired figure materialising out of the clouded air, a plain longsword belted at his waist. As always, Fenris's watery grey eyes betrayed no emotion, save for a hidden anger that Clarissa had learnt to spot.

"You should ask yourself that question, Hawke. You're the one who blacked out." Fenris said.

"And you were thrashing about all the while," Bethany said, setting her against the wall. The hand in her hair moved and squeezed her arm.

Fenris nodded. "I've never seen the Saar Qumek do that to a human, but I am no expert on this. Someone wanted you dead. Badly."

"The what?" Clarissa asked, gathering herself. She stood up, legs wobbling, and tossed glances around for her mother.

"The Saar Qumek. A Qunari poison tailor-made for humans during the first Exalted March." Fenris explained, "it affects humans by attacking their minds with terror, giving them a choice to fight or flee."

"Did you cast the spell on Mother?" Clarissa turned to Bethany, gesturing at her own mouth. She felt the traces of Bethany's magic just over her skin, filtering the air she breathed in.

Bethany nodded. "It will take time for the poison to wear off. Bodahn and Buffy followed her into her room."

Clarissa sighed with relief. That was one less thing to worry about. She clenched her fist experimentally, feeling her strength return. She blinked hard to clear the lingering influence the poison had on her mind.

"It's something else, to be sure." Clarissa commented, eyeing the green in the air warily. "Why use poison, though? Wouldn't slitting my throat in my sleep be easier?"

"There's Buffy at your bedpost. And me." Bethany watched as Fenris slid out of the dining hall into the dust room.

"That's just one more cut to make, and Maker knows Buffy wouldn't wake if a dragon roared in his ear." Clarissa said.

_The poison had come from under the door._

_ From outside._

"That's because they weren't trying to kill you," they heard Fenris shout from beyond the door. They exchanged a wary glance and hurried to join Fenris at the front door, not willing to voice the possibility they feared.

"They're trying to kill Hightown." Fenris said, flinging the door wide open upon the sisters' arrival, revealing Kirkwall's cobbled streets, chiselled stone walls and brass lampposts.

That was all they saw, before a formless beast of sickly green swallowed up the once-empty air, and Fenris slammed the door shut.


	12. Nightlife

_It never ends._

Clarissa felt an uncharacteristic stiffness lock every muscle in her body as she watched her right leg disappear into the green mist, her eyes trying their hardest to burn through the cloud with intensity alone. She knew it was folly to even attempt it, but it was the least she could do to curb the fear and anxiety rampaging through her, from freezing her solid.

_You're wasting time, Clarissa. _She shouted at herself mentally. It did little to encourage another step forward. She remembered the poison's hold on her all too clearly; remembered the sights and sounds the world around her being turned against her, mercilessly twisted and warped until every colour seemed shaded in crimson, every sound pounded in her skull and every thought embodying yet another tidal wave of fear and despair. She remembered feeling powerless; She remembered feeling alone.

Instinctively, she reached for the mental link that nestled deep within her mind, yet was never far from her thoughts. She yearned for its presence, craved the comfort it offered, even if its source was nowhere near at hand.

_I can't do this alone, _she cried out desperately with her thoughts, calling for help, for solace against an enemy that was destroying her from within.

It did not go unanswered.

_And you don't have to. _A voice rang from beyond the barriers of conscious thought, beseeching Clarissa to look deep inside herself, to feel the warm, golden glow at the core of her being, shining like the sun.

It felt like the first ray of sunshine, peeking out from under the horizon. Clarissa had never seen it before, but she was sure it was beautiful and powerful, heralding a new dawn.

She felt her heart beating, its rhythm no longer rushed and alien to her. She felt raw, unchecked power run through her veins, and she no longer felt the need to restrain them.

She took a deep breath, faintly aware of Bethany's spell upon her lips, safeguarding her. Tinges of the green haze tickled her nose, but she did not flinch from it. She was back in control.

Taking the hand-and-a-half hilt of her blade-and-a-half sword with a sure grip, she stepped fully into the inscrutable depths of Hightown. She left nothing to chance, making use of every sense at her disposal. She heard the sound of her boiled leather hunting boots rising and falling against the granite tiles, combining it with her measured strides to gauge distance.

"We need to head for the upper estates. I've seen humans and dwarves piling into an abandoned mansion just across from mine." Fenris said, his calm, even voice betraying nothing. Had he not spoken, Clarissa would have forgotten he was right behind her. A stray thought wished him away and Bethany to be at her side instead, but she brushed it away swiftly.

_Bethy needs to look after Mother. She would benefit from a familiar face. _She reminded herself, wondering at her mother's safety. The Saar Qumek had done little more than cause incredible fear in her and, perhaps luckily, her mother had not the ability to cause harm to herself and anyone else.

_Focus._

Clarissa turned her thoughts towards a beacon of light somewhere in the distance, presumably the brass street lamp at the center of the courtyard. From there, it should be a sharp left up a flight of stairs to reach the upper estates.

"I wonder if the Viscount's Keep is drowning in Saar Qumek as well," Clarissa said, glancing at the telltale steps of the Viscount's Way, barely noticeable in the fog. Her gaze pierced the inch-thick stone walls and searched vainly for Aveline, her close friend and Captain of the Kirkwall City Guard. Kirkwall could surely use her help.

"The Keep is upwind. Even the Saar Qumek will have trouble getting there," Fenris muttered. She felt his eyes drilling into her back, feeling like something other than cold indifference. Something warmer. "I'm sure she's fine, Hawke."

"One shudders to imagine what cruel demise she has planned for those who would bring harm to the Guard Captain's city." Clarissa tossed a glance at Fenris and said theatrically, grinning, hoping he would not see the effort behind it.

Her smile was cut short when she heard another set of footsteps break the silence of the deserted streets, intruding upon the rhythm her boots had established. It did not bear the sharp, rasping clinks Clarissa associated with footwear of metal make, and nor did it sound like the hardened, solid leather boots mercenaries without a coffer of their own seemed to prefer, its impression not unlike the boiled leather hunting boots Clarissa had pulled on in her haste, whose footfalls were grounded and easily recognisable, with only the slightest whisper of leather stretching.

The footsteps in question were far softer, as if they were slapping the stone instead of walking on it. Had Clarissa not grown accustomed to keeping track of Fenris's barefooted movements behind her, she would have missed the telltale sign entirely, for it was still quite a ways from them.

The footsteps became heavier. She thought she heard it falter, losing stride.

_The stairs._

Someone was descending the flight of stairs that led to the residential districts of Hightown and, judging from the information Fenris provided, odds were that he or she would be anything but friendly. Clarissa felt the familiar stirrings in her bones, dormant parts of her coming alive to the danger she perceived. She embraced it with what could be chanced as giddiness.

She brought her sword to chest height, the tip of her sword stabbing out at the green clouds obscuring her vision. Her steps slowed, not out of uncertainty but of caution. She heard Fenris draw his greatsword, a crude, plain ironwood warblade, from the clasp between his shoulders. Save for that, all was silent in Hightown.

But not for long.

A loud battle cry, rapid and indecipherable, echoed out from the green mist in front of Clarissa shortly before a feminine figure burst from them, one arm holding aloft the gleam of silver steel.

Clarissa sprang into action, but not before sizing up her assailant, and feeling it open a chasm, dividing her conscious thoughts.

She scanned her from top to bottom, noting first the wild, unkempt mane of milky blonde hair that flowed like a river behind her, driven to flight by her ferocity and given spirit by its twin counterparts of vibrant cobalt, alight with animalistic bloodlust.

She noted, with mounting, crippling indecision, her alabaster skin, high cheekbones and originally pursed lips wide open in a snarl.

_Marion DeLauncet._

She felt the ghost of a smile touch her lips.

Her most hated rival, reduced to a mindless, feral beast whom she could sidestep, step backwards once and lay open from shoulder blade to pelvis? It was simply too good to be true.

And it would be in self-defense, no less.

But then her analytical gaze shifted to the loose-fitting, flowing chemise wrapped round the Orlesian noblewoman's chest and the sound of her bare feet pounding across hard granite, in stark contrast with what she held in her hands and in her glare, and she was suddenly at a loss.

_She's poisoned!_

_ She's defenseless!_

Clarissa's mind scrambled for her to see reason, to look past her rivalry with her and hold fast to what she had been taught, not what she had learnt on her own.

_Murder is murder, even if the sorry, washed-up coot you put out of his misery had done in more than his share of men and raped their wives, set fire to someone's farm and spat in the Maker's face._

Clarissa felt reason, and compassion, stay her hand. She remembered the old guardsman's lectures word for word. After all, he would only give them after he'd bounced Clarissa around with his bent, twisted makeshift wooden sword.

_Maker be damned. _Clarissa remarked drily, not trusting herself to show more emotion, lest her frustration override her goodwill and she put Marion DeLauncet down like the bitch she was.

The arm came arcing down, and Clarissa sidestepped nimbly, holding her broad blade flat at her side to grant the charging woman passage.

Fenris, catching on immediately, leapt at the crazed noblewoman from behind as she ended her charge and restrained her with strong, lyrium-addled arms.

"Cast the spell on her!" He grunted, clearly not in tune with this "capture intact" business, but Clarissa also detected something else in his tone - a hidden urgency she could place, but could not quite believe. She let it drop for the moment and strode calmly over to the entangled pair, Fenris turning round so that the struggling woman, cursing and screaming in rapid-fire Orlesian obscenities, faced her. It took her a few moments to remember the structure of Bethany's spell.

As she prepared to conjure the ward, Marion DeLauncet spat in her face.

Clarissa almost growled, her sword arm flexing, itching to lop off the ungrateful woman's head.

_You're better than that. _Her mind cautioned.

Marion DeLauncet glared at her with wild eyes and, for a split second, actually stopped in her bucking to observe Clarissa's contemplation.

"No..." Clarissa sighed, "just... no."

Her left arm, her bracer arm, rose from her side and drove into the noblewoman's left cheek, making her mailed fingers clink and coaxing a short-lived yelp.

Marion DeLauncet slumped, suddenly boneless, in Fenris's awkward embrace.

"I couldn't resist," Clarissa said nonchalantly when she saw Fenris staring at her. "I wonder if this whole poisoning Hightown is her taking Orlesian intrigue one giant step further."

Fenris shrugged, moving to set her down by the brass lamppost a few feet in front of them. Clarissa noticed his eyes never left the woman ostensibly in his arms.

"I doubt she would be as careless as to succumb to her own poison." He said, his words edgier, sharper than usual.

_Such chivalry, too. _Clarissa thought, mentally putting Fenris and Marion DeLauncet together and finding it quite the stomach-churner. But then again, she was biased.

"Agreed," Clarissa replied, reluctantly perishing the prospect.

"We're never that lucky."


	13. Survivor

/Dear Maker on high, how long has it been?! So many distractions, so many stories to read, to enjoy and to love! But still, I didn't forget! That counts for something, right?/

Marion felt as if she were floating in clouds, with only the pain in her jaw keeping her anchored. She groaned, a dizzying expanse of green dominating her sight as she opened her eyes, then closed them again. It was still much too bright.

She was moving, though. Of that she was certain. The weightlessness she felt was interrupted by a series of regular, miniature falls, broken by her stomach against something rigid, yet strangely malleable. With every small drop, she felt wind tug at her hair and slither across her skin, tickling her dangling arms and legs. She shivered. The chemise was far too thin, and without the fire burning inside her to keep her warm, she felt the beginnings of a chill settle in her bones.

_I'd much rather be frozen solid, _she thought, relieved her thoughts were clearer than before, _than have my mind taken from me in such a manner again._

Her eyes were shut, but it did little to deter the cold seeping into her. The shivering grew worse, yet the rhythmic tugs of gravity continued, unaware of her discomfort.

It was clear she was being carried - slung over some person's shoulder as one would a duffel bag. She tried to crack open one eye, to get a look at her abductor and better calculate her escape. She lifted and tilted her head, careful to make the movement as light and undetectable as possible...

And saw a pair of piercing, forest green eyes, looking her in the eye as if she had been screaming and thrashing about instead of sneaking. Her mind went blank, unprepared for the eventuality that she would be caught so easily, and she found her appraising her captor as she struggled to regain control over her muddled thoughts.

Her eyes quickly processed stray strands of snow-white hair draped over a lean, rugged face of elven ancestry, feeling recognition and disbelief mount within her as she laid eyes on symmetrical bone-white curvatures that marked the skin below his lips, a unique mark that could not have been a coincidence.

She recognised him.

The hardness in his jaw had been different, and his eyes had been more approachable, but she recognised him nonetheless. And from the guarded look in his eyes, he recognised her too.

She watched him as he turned away and called out to someone, whose name escaped her. Her consciousness was still coming and going, and it took nearly every ounce of concentration just to keep her eyes open, and she squeezed out what little remained when the elf turned back to her, steeling herself for whatever came next.

"What's your name?" The elf asked, tersely, but not unkindly.

That, she didn't expect.

"M-Marion." She answered, the word stumbling from her lips before her mind processed it. There was a force behind his gaze that compelled her answer, something powerful that she could not resist, even with a sharp mind and a steeled resolve.

"Marion, I'm going to let you down. You're safe with us, and there's nothing stopping you from running. But if you do, we won't be able to protect you from the poison and those it has under its spell." He said, loosening his cinch on her waist, letting her slide off his back feet first.

As her feet hit the ground, she felt her mind go blank. Her legs threatened to give way. Weightlessness took hold of her once again, and this time there was no shoulder to keep her from falling.

She felt an arm snake around her waist, bracing her on the side she was collapsing on.

"That blow to your head did more damage than I thought." She heard a female voice, highlighted by footsteps, drift from the shadows. She recognised a Fereldan accent a split second before she saw its owner materialise out of the thick smog.

_Shit._

A woman outfitted in tough-looking leather armour stood before her, the rough workmanship of it standing in stark contrast with her fiery hair and fierce violet-blue eyes. Marion ran her eyes over her, taking in the well-balanced figure she cut between raw physique and feminine grace. But while she may possess a striking beauty, she certainly did not lack for intimidation, which was enhanced by her right hand resting on the pommel of an uncharacteristically wide longsword, and her left being encased in a silver gauntlet that doubled the size of her fist and seemed to gleam with a light of its own. Those two items alone spelled _nobility _to Marion, and it was not until she forced herself to meet the woman's condescending gaze that she identified her sworn rival in Kirkwall.

_Shit._

"To your credit, though. That would have been a damned good charge," she said, mockery dripping from every word, "If it hadn't been done in imitation of a mad bull."

"You were... fortunate." Marion shot back. Her eloquence may be diminished, but she knew the Fereldan would have walked all over her if she held her tongue.

"Was I? I suppose I can say the same for you, Lady Delauncet, when I decided to let your head stay where it is." Hawke smiled, all venom.

To that, she had no answer. Her still standing with her head atop her shoulders was testament enough to the mercy Hawke had shown her, and it reminded her of the danger she was still in. If she made one wrong move, uttered one ill-spoken syllable, there would be no witnesses to her beheading save for the elf who had carried her, and he was certainly not on her side.

_Think, Marion, think!_

And she did. But she did not anticipate the effort it took to move even a single thought and, to compensate, her legs gave out from beneath her. Weightlessness took over and this time, she had not the will to fight it.

And he was there in an instant, breaking her fall with a strong arm at her back. Her flailing hand caught his other arm at the wrist, and she found herself looking into those piercing forest green eyes once again.

"T-thank you," she smiled, wanly but gratefully, casting her eyes downward as he helped her stand straight, albeit leaning heavily into him.

"Might I learn the name of my rescuer?" She asked, old courtesies coming to mind. She saw him hesitate, eyes looking past her for the slightest of moments, and she wondered if she had went too far, too quickly. If she were to survive the night on more than Hawke's goodwill, she had to get him on her side, or at the very least mellow whatever negativity Hawke had painted her in.

"Call me Fenris." He said. Marion did not put much trust in her eyes, but she thought she saw a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. For some reason, she found herself smiling back.

"Fenris," she said, rolling his name around. It suited him - strong, yet gentle, a mirror image of Desmond. She found it almost too easy to warm to him, and she had fight to retain her modesty, lest she devolve into a damsel in distress, saved by her knight in shining armour.

She shook herself mentally. "Well then, Fenris. I should be safe in assuming that you and Lady Hawke had not braved this..." she gestured with her free hand, settling into Fenris's awkward embrace, "foul miasma just to come to my rescue? Surely you were on the hunt for the fiend behind this treachery."

"For all we know, we have her in our clutches already." Hawke said darkly, glaring at her. Marion felt fear stab at her as her eyes fell upon the sword at Hawke's hip, and the gloved fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on its pommel. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she could have sworn she felt the sword hovering above her skin.

"Please, Lady Hawke," she countered meekly, "what would I have to gain by poisoning Hightown? I am merely a victim in this incident. You must believe me." She need not fake the desperation in her voice, but she doubted Hawke even acknowledged the emotion at all. She could see the naked fury in her eyes, and she knew at once that it had nothing to do with her feeble attempt at ambushing her. She saw her as a threat, a thorn in her side that could so easily be plucked if she so chose, innocence be damned.

_It's not right! _She pleaded silently, but she knew Hawke didn't care about right or wrong. In Hawke's eyes, what she planned to do was perfectly justified, for Marion knew she never forgot the day she had brought the templars to her door.

She remembered the dread in the newly-anointed noblewoman's violet-blue eyes when the mage hunters came for her younger sister. It was the same dread that chilled the blood in her veins at this very moment.

She remembered the suffocating tension in the woman's body language when Bethany Hawke, Grey Warden Commander of the Free Marches, had renounced the templars' claim over her with her title. It was the exact same tension that was making every muscle in her body lock in place, strangling her with cold, invisible hands as she stood before Clarissa Hawke, who never forgot and never forgave.

She remembered the cold fury in Clarissa Hawke's eyes as the last of the templars departed, leaving her alone in the doorway with the sisters. She had felt the very air become alight with the flame-haired woman's hatred and she had seen, behind the all-consuming rage, her swearing a silent vow that Marion had never thought she could fulfill.

She had smiled then, a thin-lipped warning offset by narrowed eyes. No words needed be said - it was the silence that eventually sunk in, not paltry, vocal threats.

But as the same silence descended over the empty Hightown street, Marion found it nigh on unbearable.

_Just be quick about it!_

Then she felt the arm around her waist tighten, and a familiar but unexpected voice took both Hawke and herself by surprise.

"Hawke, we've gone over this before. She is not the one who did this." Fenris spoke up, leaping to her defense. She turned at the sound of his voice, clamping down on the urge to gasp.

Hawke fixed her sizzling gaze on the elf, the shock of his betrayal adding fuel to the inferno that brew behind her furrowed eyes. Fenris, for his part, simply returned her glare with adamant eyes, unflinching even as her grip on her longsword grew bone-white, and Marion envisioned the blade's golden gleam whistling through the air, biting into her neck and ending her life with one swift, vengeful stroke.

Then she saw something shift behind the fire, and she felt Hawke's gaze on her once again, only this time her glare seemed to pass through her and diminish into the green mists, instead of nailing her to the wall with sheer force of will. She saw her cock her head, as if listening to hushed words meant for her ears alone.

_Bethany. _Marion thought. The younger Hawke was an apostate, and she and Clarissa have made no secret of the relationship between them being more than mere sisters. She could only hope it was sense that Bethany was whispering into Hawke's ear.

With a shaky breath, Clarissa Hawke pried her fingers from the hilt of her sword, one by agonising, second-guessing one.

Marion breathed a sigh of relief, silently thanking the white-haired elf for his intervention. She turned her eyes to the stone tiles beneath her bare soles as Hawke cut into her with her deep, dark eyes, doing to her what she herself had once done.

_Your day will come, Marion Delauncet. You will watch your house crumble before your eyes, your family torn apart. And then, _only _then shall I take your head._

Marion heard the sound of her boots grow faint as she disappeared into the mist.

Fenris seemed to be unaware of this wordless exchange. He turned to her, handing her a silver-sheathed dagger, gracefully curved at the tip and exuding Orlesian craftsmanship everywhere else. "The smog has gotten thicker as we climbed the stairs. The spell on your lips will guard you from the poison, but there's no telling how many we are up against."

Marion nodded, gripping her dagger tightly within her fingers as they took off after the departing Hawke. Only after Fenris had caught up with Lady Hawke, with her following close behind, did she allow the ghost of a smile touch her lips. Hawke might have held the upper hand, but she has made her first, and worst, mistake.

She had let her live.

/R&R!/


End file.
